How’s that for a blog title? Sounds like one of those avant garde 1960s plays, doesn’t it? (The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade — that sort of thing.)
Actually, it’s the plain, mundane, and muddy fact of the day. Just now, I was sitting in the bedroom-to-be, sipping a cup of sweet tea, kicking back in a bentwood rocker (maybe I should add that to the title), inspecting/admiring/critiquing the wall I taped and plastered this morning.
And it occurred to me that when this project is complete — by the end of this month if I stay on schedule — I’ll have to face real life again. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
I certain I’m not.
When this work is done, it’ll be back to: one book to finish; one book to revise; one short story to complete; and gazing out once again upon the insanity that prevails in post-rational America.
The physical labor of creating the new bedroom has been good for mind and body, especially now that I’ve reached the stage of finishing walls and applying trim. So has working to the deadline I set myself: move-in time, end of January or first of February.
And I’m moving nothing in until the last stick of molding and dab of paint is done. This time I’m not going to move into a room promising myself to tend to that last detail in a month or so, only to find said detail glaring accusingly at me two years later.
So I’ve been working at a comfortable pace, with a motivating goal. And the main thought on my mind as I wake up and go to sleep is the latest measurement of progress and the next step to take.*
These are such sane thoughts to think. This is such productive work to do. It began to dawn on me a couple of days ago that once I’ve met my goal, then cleaned up some of the rubble and wreckage that my house has been in for the last seven months, I’ll likely find myself staving off depression and despair.
The other day I appeared to agree with Trump on the question of “sh*thole” countries (though I don’t agree with his views on immigration). And while I do think it’s useful to call a spade a spade, if we’re still allowed to use that expression, I’m actually as horrified as anybody else that the U.S. has such a vulgar, pernicious, self-regarding, impulsive, light-weight, and certifiable moron at the top of its eternal political PR machine.
It might be a great idea for the people of certain countries in the world to admit, “Yes, we live in a sh*thole; is there anything that can be done to improve the situation, like maybe educating ourselves beyond tribal superstition or ceasing to tolerate autarchs and their thieving cronies?” But having the president of the U.S. announce to all the world that your country (or your entire continent!) is a “sh*thole” isn’t a great means to that end.
Particularly if he announces it between preening about his own genius and paying off a porn star.
OTOH, I remind myself, I’m the one who wrote that a political office, no matter how powerful, deserves no more respect than the most odious oaf who plants his butt in it. We’ve been granted a fine demonstration of that truth with Donald Trump. Shouldn’t we be glad to see that reality so starkly revealed — even though Comrade X pointed out the other day that Trump has thrown the gates wide to admit even worse “leaders.”
As excited as I am about finishing the bedroom project, I’m dreading getting back to a world dominated by such “news.” Not to mention a world of corrupt autarchs, thieving cronies, and a future being formed by our own version of tribal witch doctors who have their own incalculably destructive superstitions.
* Actually, the first thought on my mind this morning was — for no accountable reason — a prehistoric beer jingle. But after that …