Pay-offs

[mallorys_camera]

Winds must have crested at 40 miles per hour straight through yesterday, but like Herodotus’s Postman and the Brave Little Toaster before her, Census Girl was not deterred! This job does suit me – I’ve always been the type of person who looks at places, things and thinks: why is this here? what combination of forces – geologic, economic, demographic – placed it in this exact spot as opposed to somewhere else or even nowhere else? One of the reasons I’m seldom if ever bored...

I had a very pleasant weekend.

Drove by the Larkin St house and lo and behold! all the junk was gone. It had been there the day before. (I know because I’d put two hours at six that morning dealing with it.) But 24 hours later it was all gone, the carpets had all been stripped, white dust sprinkled over everything, painting soon to be commenced. Joe – Grazia’s handsome, blue eyed husband – is a contractor. I guess that means he does this sort of thing fast.

A nice birthday present from the universe. Although of course I felt the usual surge of guilt and panic – la la la, you are such a fuck up, la la la! Over the years I have come to realize that this must be a pay-off of sorts since I am constantly putting myself in situations where I can’t possibly accomplish what I’ve promised to accomplish. Larkin Street house was just another case in point: honestly now, there is no fucking way one middle aged woman with a tiny VW bug in three weeks can clean out a seven room house in which three slovenly humans and two dogs had lived for six years.

Then cruised on over to Santa Cruz. Annie had actually gotten balloons and a cake together, and Max drove down, suffered through Ordeal By Elderly Female Relatives with good grace (see expression on photo above.) Begged off accompanying Max to watch a slam poetry contest at the San Francisco Opera House; instead curled up on Stew’s couch and watched reams of bad television – a very confusing movie called Zodiac; the first installment of Season 3 of The Tudors – while reading a biography of Montgomery Clift (“In the unexpurgated version of Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon, Monty is called ‘Princess Tiny Meat.’”)

Next morning drove up to Oakland.

TBC if I ever find the time...

Comments

[quiet-life.livejournal.com]

a birthday toast to you:
with larkin street lifted from your shoulders, may the surge of guilt become a purge of guilt and a fresh beginning.