The cat, the lover and the laundry
by Ariadne Radi Cor
Revisiting ancient sites of winter mis-takes
on a line of clues, a cruise of thoughts,
circumnavigating Venus and the lamp beside the golden door, I recall.
My father used to demolish metal
and magnetic fields, manoeuvring cranes
laying his warmer right hand on the spine of the subalpine skyline.
Then he became a star, shooting back and forth
like a drunken cyclist on a dynamo bicycle
slaloming heaven, pedalling to be seen.
While my mother on earth used softener liberally
because the world has been so harsh:
at least the laundry is dreaming.
She used to leave the lamp on, to pretend we were in
but the burglars stole her necklace, nonetheless
and the bailiffs the television, in the end.
In the early 90s, when everything was fine
my sister used to do her hair
for half an hour every morning.
She melted the ice caps with her hairdryer,
and left the house at 7 so soft, while I stayed in bed, six years old
mesmerised by the hum of the age.
Twenty years later, a stray cat would settle, enchanted
on my overheating laptop, dreaming
in the fan noise the way I would in the winter
At the laundrette, hypnotised for 20 pence a minute
pressing my spine on the golden door of a tumble dryer, tempest-tossed
absorbing the repetition of tropical hurricanes.
My Friend Jules explores new ways for us to think about energy and to share points of view about this vital common resource. It recognises that our energy decisions depend as much on human factors as science. By contributing your unique story about Jules, you help us more fully understand our society’s complex relationship to energy.
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