Saturday, April 4, 2020


When I got sick, I cancelled the maids, of course.  I don't know when they will come back.  So I am left to clean my house on my own.  I have found out that I am a human pig.  I try to clean, but when I finish, things look just as bad or worse than they did before.  I am going to have to try harder.  When I had the studio, I cleaned well.  It was a place where I made messes, but I was unafraid to move things and clean up spills and sticky puddles made from the various experiments I would try.  I would paint walls quickly and without fear.  And those skills translated into being a better cleaner at home.  But it has been years now--five!--since I had the studio.  I have lost my nerve.  I clean in my pre-studio way, timidly, trying not to disturb things, moving them slightly simply cleaning around them.

I am going to have to strip every surface and really go after things--counters, table tops, floors.  There can be no half measures.

I will do it soon.  Yes, as soon as I am overtaken by some inspirational energy.  I am just waiting for it to feel right.

Meanwhile, I sit.  And I sleep.  I've never slept so much in my life.  And as I've mentioned many times, I have become slow.  Even on my walks.  I should time them.  I'm sure my pace has slowed.

I read and write in the mornings while I drink a pot of coffee.  Then I exercise and take a long walk.  And I shower.  I eat twice a day, once around noon and again around six.  Lunch is usually leftovers or something I can make quickly.  It is usually accompanied by "a glass" of wine.  And then, most days, I am sleepy and take a nap.  I usually wake up around 3:30 and do some household chores or set to organizing my photo files which is going to take apparently thousands of hours, so much so that I get daunted.  Happy hour seems to have moved up a bit.  A first cocktail and some texting, and then a walk to the lake.  I am home by six to start dinner and watch "The Trump Show."  I clean up, write some more, then settle in around eight or eight-thirty to watch something on t.v.  Many nights is is just a menagerie of YouTube things.  I'm usually off to bed by ten.  I've taken to using a very expensive, high concentrate, organic CBD oil before bed, and I have been sleeping well through the night.  I don't know if it is the oil or not, but I am afraid to not take it in order to tell.  I usually wake at six and begin the cycle again.

There are some exceptions to this.  After my quarantine, I began going over in the late afternoon and having happy hour with my mother sitting in lawn chairs about twelve feet apart, but I am not going every day now.  We are in agreement on this.  We have each developed our own lazy routine.  I write her and call her and FaceTime with her throughout the day.  We are both getting used to being alone.

My wardrobe consists of cotton shorts and a drawer full of v-neck white t-shirts that Ili bought me after the accident.  They were the easiest thing for me to put on.  They still are.  I have worn nothing else during Corona time.

 I have decided, however, to take my camera with me when I walk.  The light here is spectacular this time of year. I feel it wasted, really.  Now when I walk, I photograph the light.  I photograph the most mundane of things.  It is good training, good practice.  Above I've posted something that reminds me of Monet's waterlilies.  This is with a morning light.  I am east looking west.  The lilies are dappled with the light falling through the branches of the cypress trees that line the lake.  I've been to Monet's famous pond.  I like mine as well.

I am late today.  It is Saturday.  Does that mean anything to the housebound?  It must.  The word "Saturday" conjures up all the old feelings of childhood, the morning cartoons, playing with friends, perhaps a movie or a viewing of Shock Theater horror movies in the afternoon.  For those of us who lived pre-pandemic, it will always be suggestive.

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