The Dithering Impulse
Apr. 10th, 2009 07:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraThere is a great Census novel, actually – Robert Stone’s Hall of Mirrors: one of the minor characters – a Christian fanaticist (can’t recall his name) – wanders around New Orleans’ seemy underbelly counting the inhabitants and going mad. Robert Stone’s minor characters are frequently more engaging than his major characters, certainly the case here though it’s been a while since I read the novel. Rinehart, the protagonist – presumably Stone’s intraject and the early prototype for Dog Soldiers’ Converse – is a cruel and narcissistic drunk, not very interesting at all.
So. Lots and lots has been going on but I haven’t had time to write and my Internet access is spotty. Hope to remedy that B-day morning over bottomless cappucinos at the Noir. Cruising around the secret Monterey has been fascinating even at the same time that it’s been physically exhausting – I must have walked 10 miles yesterday. Very solitary work which suits me at present – I feel as though I just crawled out of the wreckage of a plane or something.
And of course I have hideous amounts of stuff to do – there is still a ton of junk in that house; when Grazia did the walk through with me, I could see her lip curling in disdain and revulsion. “How could you live like this?” she asked finally. “I mean, I don’t want to be rude but this, this is disgusting.”
What could I say? She’s right, of course. I mean – I suppose I could try to explain what happens when you work 80+ hours a week. You triage. You do what’s absolutely necessary for survival, the rest you bail on. Downtime is more important to me than a clean house.
From Grazia's perspective though, that's completely irrelevant.
Still I could feel the Dithering Impulse rising in my breast: let me explain it to you, Grazia – let’s take a walk together through my psychic landscape, shall we? The fact is she’d never understand, it’s a choice she’d never make and looking at her now, feeling shame, I wonder why I made it: just once at 2 in the morning while I was battling insomnia, instead of watching Episode 493 of The Millionaire Matchmaker for the 14th time, couldn’t I have gotten up and cleaned the refrigerator?
Apparently I couldn’t.
It is what it is.
The incomprehensible thing to me is that Grazia has a $2000 deposit which I never thought I’d get back – after all, we lived at Larkin Street for six years, we had dogs, we had messy teenagers. Two thousand dollars is enough to make that place right, enough to haul the junk, throw paint on the walls, install new ugly carpet.
Really, I should declare myself quit of the situation.
Instead I keep going over there at 5 in the morning, cleaning, sorting, moving. Carting boxes of orphaned books over to the library, leaving them anonymously on the front steps, my foundlings.
I’m inclined to blame Ben for the squalor. I’m inclined to see this as another aspect of our disasterous synergy. But I don’t know how fair that is. How did I live sixteen years ago before I met Ben? Was I a horrible slob then too? Honestly, I don’t remember.
I spent yesterday evening cleaning the red VeeDub. Vacuuming out the sand from countless dog beach trips, picking up the ancient candy wrappers that RTT had carelessly dropped, scrubbing the residue of smoking while driving off the windshield and the dashboard. Kevin and Fumani keyed the car before the Cannery Row company fired them – I’m going to stencil some Art Car decals and apply them over the scratches.
Cleaning the car made me feel better.
So. Lots and lots has been going on but I haven’t had time to write and my Internet access is spotty. Hope to remedy that B-day morning over bottomless cappucinos at the Noir. Cruising around the secret Monterey has been fascinating even at the same time that it’s been physically exhausting – I must have walked 10 miles yesterday. Very solitary work which suits me at present – I feel as though I just crawled out of the wreckage of a plane or something.
And of course I have hideous amounts of stuff to do – there is still a ton of junk in that house; when Grazia did the walk through with me, I could see her lip curling in disdain and revulsion. “How could you live like this?” she asked finally. “I mean, I don’t want to be rude but this, this is disgusting.”
What could I say? She’s right, of course. I mean – I suppose I could try to explain what happens when you work 80+ hours a week. You triage. You do what’s absolutely necessary for survival, the rest you bail on. Downtime is more important to me than a clean house.
From Grazia's perspective though, that's completely irrelevant.
Still I could feel the Dithering Impulse rising in my breast: let me explain it to you, Grazia – let’s take a walk together through my psychic landscape, shall we? The fact is she’d never understand, it’s a choice she’d never make and looking at her now, feeling shame, I wonder why I made it: just once at 2 in the morning while I was battling insomnia, instead of watching Episode 493 of The Millionaire Matchmaker for the 14th time, couldn’t I have gotten up and cleaned the refrigerator?
Apparently I couldn’t.
It is what it is.
The incomprehensible thing to me is that Grazia has a $2000 deposit which I never thought I’d get back – after all, we lived at Larkin Street for six years, we had dogs, we had messy teenagers. Two thousand dollars is enough to make that place right, enough to haul the junk, throw paint on the walls, install new ugly carpet.
Really, I should declare myself quit of the situation.
Instead I keep going over there at 5 in the morning, cleaning, sorting, moving. Carting boxes of orphaned books over to the library, leaving them anonymously on the front steps, my foundlings.
I’m inclined to blame Ben for the squalor. I’m inclined to see this as another aspect of our disasterous synergy. But I don’t know how fair that is. How did I live sixteen years ago before I met Ben? Was I a horrible slob then too? Honestly, I don’t remember.
I spent yesterday evening cleaning the red VeeDub. Vacuuming out the sand from countless dog beach trips, picking up the ancient candy wrappers that RTT had carelessly dropped, scrubbing the residue of smoking while driving off the windshield and the dashboard. Kevin and Fumani keyed the car before the Cannery Row company fired them – I’m going to stencil some Art Car decals and apply them over the scratches.
Cleaning the car made me feel better.
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no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 12:53 am (UTC)(I know times aren't very good for you right now, but I'm glad that you manage some time to write here)
i remember feeling total mental exhaustion during the process of cleaning out my mom's duplex and readying it for sale. miserable job and process without help, so i feel for you. if you can manage, get through the process of hauling out the junk, because the painting and carpet will easily get to 2 grand, unless your landlord feels like writing up something settling it for the 2 grand.
i'm hoping for you that particular burden is lifted from your shoulders very soon.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 01:52 am (UTC)Jeff
no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 01:52 am (UTC)Jeff
no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 11:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-11 12:28 pm (UTC)I second lethe's sentiment. May this new stage in your life be a good one for you.