...
You, technically, are not supposed to be able to do that to a zen mistress, okay? And, in fact, as far as it goes on this end, it does not apply, but the effort is being made, the driving is being done, and I have taken refuge in my dream world.
I have been forced in my duty to my community to get my house painted. It mostly didn't need paint, but the parts that do really need it, really, really need it, and I have hated the color since the day I arrived, so we're painting my house... my whole house... my particular dark gray that has just a vague lavenderness about it. It was dirt easy to get that paint when 86 and I went looking for it to paint the inside of an antique box he was making gorgeous for me, and so the color code is right there... for fucksakes... and the paint stores are supposedly able to match even a damn paint chip if you bring it to them. So I don't know what the friggin' holdup is, but there has been a holdup.
The umpteenth handyman I have dug up for myself over the last nine years is really nice and very talented. He's doing all kinds of things every goddam handyman I ever hired managed to avoid getting to — just doing the parts they didn't mind hassling with and disappearing before the other stuff was ever tackled. The glass/screen door into the mud room from the drive has been broken since I got here. I've begged every one of these fucks to help me with it and he's the only one who is actually fixing it. He's caulking all around the windows and any place that looks like trouble. He hauled off the frickin' satellite dish that I have hated from day one. He's doing a good job.
But it keeps not being painting for weeks! His truck broke down. His wife says she'll be gone for an hour and doesn't come back with his transportation for four hours. His meth head son stole the petty cash from the office where he works. It's too hot. He'll be here directly after work. Home Depot ran out of paint! The phone rings at least twice a day with this stuff, and it's never accurate!
So my nerves start racing around my blood vessels like it's the Indy 500 for razor blades and... nothing... zero, zip, nada, bubkes... nothing. I can hear a logging truck in the distance. Somebody's cranking on his dirt bike. But mostly outright nothing and no one. The old people aren't even settled into their nightly terrors. The angry Hispanics are still out working and ignoring their loathing. Nobody's spraying their crops. The chemtrails are nowhere near. The mold is cringing away from the summer. The inmates down in Pelican Bay aren't breaking my brain lately either. It's, for here, for me here, a relatively clear field.
I even made the calls I had to make to the bureaucrats I can't endure.
The field is supposed to be clear!
But my handyman has me cranked up... and... and nothing.
So I am thinking about soothing stuff.
always and any time....
