July 30, 2016

Everyday Wickedness

 

Or, Some Things Don’t Change

I blew off handbells today. Shock.  Horror.  But our usual Friday afternoon handbell madness is occasionally held in Morocco, because one of our regulars lives there, and for her to come here is a very long commute for a couple of hours of somewhat erratic handbells, since we are not all up to Niall’s standard, and occasionally we all go to her instead.  Furthermore she has a big garden full of wildlife and if the handbells are going badly someone can always look out the window and say ‘oh, look, a djinn.’

But the days we drive to Morocco are a long commute for those of us coming from New Arcadia and Mauncester. And I, as I have told you, am beginning to do a little story-work again, but it’s kind of a struggle*, and most of this last week has been a non-event due to obsessing about the interment, the interment, and disintegrating after the interment.  And while I wasn’t looking, the story that was (I thought) unspooling the most steadily got itself into the most spectacular matted mare’s nest** and yesterday I pulled most of it to pieces trying to figure it out, speaking of morale problems.  So when Niall told me handbells were at Jillian’s today I demurred and said I needed to stay home and work.

Well, I did need to stay home and work.  This is not necessarily what happened.  THIS IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED.  What happened is by mid-afternoon I was having difficulty not throwing this ARGLEBARGLEDOODAHBLITZIT object across the room, which is to say my so-called computer***, AND the mare’s nest now resembled a plait of plastic rope that someone has set fire to.  Not only is it not pretty and is incapable of holding anything together it PONGS.

So about the time Niall would have been setting off to Morocco I LEAPED INTO WOLFGANG AND WENT TO MAUNCESTER TO LOOK AT STORAGE SOLUTIONS. Such vice!  Such wickedness!  Where I came in:  some things don’t change.  I used to do exactly this in similar situations back in Maine.  When the pong of melted plastic rope got too much I would leap into Ferdinand and drive to Ellsworth and look at storage solutions, lack of storage having been a guiding principle my entire life.  The lilac-covered cottage in Blue Hill was smaller than this one†, but I had fewer bad habits in those days†† and now that I don’t have Peter’s larger house to spill into (and out of) the corners of, um.  I also had only one dog in Maine.  The hellmob larder situation is extreme AND IS TAKING UP POTENTIAL BOOK SPACE.

I can’t say I solved it, but I did come home with two Very Large Plastic Crates and four small ones.  I did not choose these because they were the cheapest bins available, which they were, but because I could get them in purple, turquoise and pink.

Some things don’t change.

* * *

* It’s always a struggle, it’s been a struggle for approximately sixty-three years^ it’s just sometimes my vorpal blade is shining with a burning flame and going snicker-snack and sometimes it is more of an overripe banana going squish.  I’m glad that—as someone on the forum has I think said—the Story Council seems to have unearthed my address and has started sending me possible projects again^^ but speaking of things that don’t change I’m working on two short things and a long thing, and the short things are (a) a SEQUEL to another short thing and (b) a retelling of a frelling fairy tale which means these are both RIFE WITH PERIL for someone who doesn’t do the short thing all that well, I mean, even rifer with peril, because a sequel means that there’s more there, you know?  Which is how accidents happen.  And retelling fairy tales . . . eh.  My record here speaks for itself.   And the long thing is, well, long.  So the Story Council’s latest hot delivery is THANKS SO MUCH YOU GUYS, a novel that has been lurking in the back of my mind and the bottom of my cough-cough-cough-cough filing system for thirty years.  Yes.  Really.  This is something I started poking at after BEAUTY, and then SWORD snatched me away, saying, yes, yes, you said that Damar was scaring you, we let you write BEAUTY to settle you down, now pay attention.  This other thing has waved to me from the shadows from time to time since then but . . . GO AWAY.  I’M SURE YOU’RE ADORABLE BUT I HAVE ENOUGH GOING ON.^^^

^ My memories of telling myself proto-stories in my crib are comparatively mellow

^^ Although I don’t actually think it’s the Story Council’s fault in this case. I think I’ve been ignoring that slap on the doormat that says INCOMING, unless, of course, it’s a gardening catalogue, a knitting magazine+, or that extra-specially splendid thud that declares A NEW BOOK, because, of course, I need more books, I can’t get up the stairs in either house because of the book boxes++:  that is, I can, because I have long legs and I won’t sue myself, but nobody else can.  However given that my housekeeping skills have never had a lot of profile and have been almost completely dormant for the last eight or nine months, repelling visitors has become an act of charity since the only loo in either house is . . . upstairs.+++

+ I have something hilarious to tell you.  I NEED A NEW KNITTING PROJECT.  I NEED A NEW KNITTING PROJECT. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, stop, stop, hahahahaha I can’t stop, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOP.  Yes.  Well.  I’m sure I’ve told you that I’ve turned into the Crazy Knitting Lady Super-Extra Model since Peter died because having my head down over a lapful of yarn helps me not cry in public, and knitting through the sermons every week at St Margaret’s has revealed that, because I’m a fidget and sitting still takes effort, knitting furthermore helps me concentrate.#   With the unsurprising outcome that I’m getting through rather a lot of it.  The shortcoming of this system is that I can only do plain, plain, PLAIN knitting because I am a bear of very little brain and if I’m using knitting to suppress the fidgets as well as the tear ducts while I’m paying attention to something else I can’t do anything clever.##

So, yeah, my house is full of unfinished projects###, like the houses of most knitters I know, but I daren’t risk trying to finish any of these because I will bobble them extremely. So I need A NEW (simple minded) KNITTING PROJECT.  Too delicious.  And it’s not even on my forbidden-foods list.####

# Although I have to remember not to wave a needle around for emphasis during the discussion afterward.

## The fact that the strips of that infamous baby blanket are different lengths testifies to just how plain the knitting has to be.  Counting rows?  COUNTING?  You mean, like, MATHS?  Bad idea.  Really, really bad idea.

### Stuffed into an assortment of excellent tote bags emblazoned with slogans like ‘I knit so I don’t kill people’. What a pity it took me so long to discover knitting.

#### It probably should be BUT IT’S NOT.

++ I told you, didn’t I, that Atlas came off his bike about two months ago and broke both wrists?! So the shelf-building has been on hold.  It has begun again, now he’s out of plaster, but the Lodge’s walls are even more skew-whiff than the cottage and it’s more sculpture# than carpentry.  Which takes longer.

# The local what’s-on New Arcadia magazine this month has an ad for a beginners’ sculpture class. NOOOOOOO.  MCKINLEY, IN WHAT TIME?  WITH WHAT ENERGY?  But I keep thinking about it.  Let’s see I could give up . . . um . . . I could give up . . . =

= And it’s worse than that because I’ve started drawing again. In what time and with what energy.  And what result must be considered.  If my writing is too often adding three words and deleting seventeen, my drawing is adding half a syllable and deleting a page.

+++ They breed, you know, book boxes, like clothes-hangers in neglected closets.   Every time I go up to Third House there’s another one in a corner that I’m SURE was clear last time.  Empty wrong-sized plant pots do exactly the same thing.  Arrrgh.

^^^ Unless of course you promise, word of honour and sealed in blood, that I can write you in six weeks and you will be BRILLIANT and sell 1,000,000,000 copies in the first six months.

** Like necklace chains in the jewellery drawer overnight. How do they DO that?  ARRRRRGH.

*** My proper laptop—the ultrabook, laptops are so last decade—is in the frelling shop, because its keyboard went doolally last week.  Okay, so, how many people eat at their computer?  Like, most of us?  And why can’t the idiots in development create a bits-proof keyboard?  Now I’m off all cereal grains I’m not even producing many crumbs.  Although tahini and pine nuts are probably worse.  Anyway.  I’m presently attempting to work on my old, reconditioned laptop—back when laptops were laptops—and apparently it liked being retired because It.  Is.  Not. Cooperating.  So when Raphael brings the ultra back with a shiny fresh porous keyboard, he will take AWAAAAAAAY this pigbutt of a machine and whack it around some.

† The kitchen more nearly resembled a kitchen but the house had no attic. Reasons to move to England:  public footpath system.  Roses.  Attics.

†† YARN

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