I'd rather be home cleaning the house than sitting here working--because I really don't like to clean the house. I like having cleaned the house because I enjoy it being clean, I just want the pixies to come in the night and clean it for me. Actually what I'd really like to do is scrape out everything in the house, sort through it, and only let back inside the things I really love (yes, Durwood, you get to stay). While I have all of our possessions on the lawn I'd peel up all the mid-70s burnt orange and lime green and printed kitchen carpeting. I'd put flooring in the kitchen/dining, and then carpet the rest but with neutral carpet that doesn't show dirt and is self-vacuuming. (hey, I can have whatever fantasy I want) I'd scrub down the walls and woodwork and repaint everything a nice soothing tan/gray color with bright yellow in the north-facing kitchen (or have minions to do it). But really, I just want to have the energy to stash my knitting crap in the corner of the bedroom behind a door I can close, zoom around with the Swiffer, clean the bathroom and run the vacuum. I'm relying on Durwood to clean the kitchen since he's adopted it as his bailiwick (although he did let me cook last night's supper). Ooh, it's been busy here at the dive shop so my posting keeps getting interrupted, but it's a good think to have customers so I'm totally not complaining. I'd rather be busy then sit here twiddling (or knitting and watching Netflix streaming videos).
October 14--Thomas Eakins, The Champion Single Sculls. Max sat in his scull, his oars trailing in the river, his muscles feeling hot and smooth. He had won, he had never doubted that he would. When he sat in his scull, the boat a slender knife in the water, he and it were one. He felt the layers of the river, the currents and eddies, and the rocks and logs on the bottom. No trout sliced through the water like he did. He labored over his oars, rocking like a metronome in perfect time to his heartbeat. He and the river were like one organism, of course he was champion. He felt the cool breeze press itself against his side and dreamed of being a sail for it to fill so that he barely skimmed the dark blue surface of the Charles. He had just passed under the Twelfth Street Bridge when the bullet pierced his heart and went through the stern of his boat before tumbling to the bottom of the river like a stone.
Dun-dun-dunnnn. I didn't expect that ending (or beginning). I must have really been tired. Oh, Mom's doing okay; they expect her to be in the hospital through Wednesday next week, and then to rehab.