I'm the bitch. I'm no good with tools, so I stand by and chat. I go get things and pick up lunches and make or buy dinners. In between, I go away so that I am not in the way.
"Oh, honey, I'm home."
I don't want to go into it. My problems are mine and yours are yours, and if you need to share, I will listen, but I am not so good at sharing mine. Problems are a weakness in my Hemingstein code, and are best shared with strong drink at night alone or with one other. Problems are a weakness and weakness is a weakness. . . and never the twain shall meet. Maybe Groucho Marx.
Do you know what a Spandau Ballet is? Not the musical group. I feel I am performing the Spandau Ballet, alone, and in my sleep.
I am a sissy, you see, trying to play tough. I am tough. But I am also a sissy. I'm good with other people's problems. My own. . . not so much. But don't fuck with me or I will make you sorry. A bitch can fuck a brother up.
As you can tell, I'm coming apart at the synapsis. The house is coming apart, too. It is as emblematic as Maison Vauquer in "Pere Goriot," a grotesque representation of my own physical state.
I am lucky to have someone to fix the house. It will be expensive, but it will be done. Me? Oh. . . that's another matter.
The moon rises late but is still bright. The air is not as cool nor as dry as it was earlier this week. I bought sushi tonight for Mr. Fixit and myself, a costly and decadent treat. I even got the quail eggs. The sake was unfiltered and sweet and delicious. We dined alfresco. Even in decay, one must put on some airs. One would have the world at attention for the moment, at least.
I could sell my house for a lot of money, but whoever bought it would tear it down and build a new one. I understand. Old houses are passé, and new construction and new materials are good. But I've decided I will probably die in this house. It is fine and it is comfortable for me. This is probably the final abode. So we will fix it up to last my lifetime which shouldn't be too hard. I don't want to guess how many years, and I hope it is more than I imagine. What doctors tell you is worse for your mental health than the diseases themselves are for your physical health, I think. I am convinced we are better off not knowing.
I will probably be writing at night for awhile. My mornings are taken now with necessary deeds. Evenings are still ethereal vapors. I have lost the election drama being too busy thinking about home saving and survival, but this writing is not a hobby. It is essential for me. I'll leave a record even if it is not read. I was here, goddamnit, even if no one noticed.
I am here. Make no mistake about that. The sake must be drunk, the sushi must be eaten, and the scotch is there to kill there worms.
As always, Selavy.
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