Friday, June 22, 2001

 

10:34 a.m. Stumbling along here, I am. But here. I am. Still here. Still, here in the a.m.; what with all the noise circling madly overhead.

It does look as if we're going to have to do that old home-improvement cha-cha -- the one that means we're probably, most likely, pretty much going to be putting the house we live in up for sale. On the market. The open market.

I could sigh and I could wring my hands, but I need all my strength for home improvement. I should be on the ladder, even now -- but I also think this is an important time for documenting the process, even if it's sporadic and slipshod and mostly cosmetic. That's how I work; that's who I am.

Let's let the open market speak. Let's see what I am worth.

Sigh. Can't help it.

The good news is that we have a house to sell. I am very grateful for that. Plus, I can do some of the work required myself. My path is clearly taped off -- I just have to stay within the lines.

And the Perforated Lines? Ah, there's the loophole, I hope. Entries may sometimes be sporadic here ... or not. I'm still fussing ... write here, write there -- do I dare? Do I have the time or should I put all this fal de la aside until I'm safely unpacked somewhere other than here?

Is this the most importune time? What could be more portune than a day in June? And not just any day, nay -- but the day after the longest day, the anniversary day, the natal day?

Yeah, yeah -- I hear you, voices in my head ... the more I can do for this house, the more I can make for the agents, the bank, the IRS, the insurance companies ... yeah, I get the picture. I must improve the bottom line and ignore the perforated one. Yes. I do. hear. you.

But, for now -- before -- for now I've got this absolutely insane idea that I can: Do Both! Totally take on the painting and the cleaning, the stashing and the mashing of my tender fingers (part of the day) and then, in the quietude of the night, perhaps I could pound out a few quality words from these conveniently labeled keys that are so cunningly sized for those very fingers.

It could happen. It's possible -- really. I have hope. I've made the elaborate lists, and even the most licensed, badged-up worker on the planet takes the occasional break. Right? Plus, most paint is water-based these days, and you know the time you save, right there. I've got cow-udder lanolin for my hands, so I should be all right.

This could work out. I'll try to take it one longer day at a time. Today I will scrape a wall, caulk and spackle the cracks and holes, slather the caustic paint remover on the wood trim, cringe and burn from the tiniest dots of red-ant pain that the stuff bites on my arms, tape and cover the carpet next to the wall, and maybe get a first coat on the surface.

Ooof. Meanwhile, if I make a trap out of a few index cards and some pencils, I might be able to capture those illusive butterflies of logic that only flit about when I'm totally involved in physical labor. Otherwise occupied -- or so they think. We'll see about that.

When I empty my pockets at the end of the night and look at the various screws and pins and pennies, I just might have a word or two in the cache as well.

You never know. Ain't that the truth.