Ah, the blissful bubble of NaNoWriMo is over. Well, officially it’s over at midnight on November 30th, so I’ve got a day and then some to revel in typing my fingers off. But let’s face it, I’ve got my 50,000 words and my Winner Certificate, so I guess I’m a Lame Duck WriMo. And now, although I’m still banging away at it, I’ve come to a really difficult spot in my “novel.” I’m hoping that putting it to bed for the night will help: let it incubate for a while, or perhaps compost, ferment, whatever gets it going again.
I decided to tackle some of the effects of entropy that have turned my living space into even more of a trash heap than it was before. So I tackled something that just has to be done. In case you don’t remember, I moved into my dad’s pottery studio. He’s too sick to use it anymore, and I need a place to live. It’s been quite an adventure, full of all kinds of challenges and roadblocks. I’ll have to write a post devoted to the project and where it stands to date, complete with pictures of my electric toilet. That’s right folks: I have an electric toilet, because this building is perched on the edge of a cliff and there’s no place for a septic tank.
Anyway. Tonight I spent an hour putting my dad’s pottery tools away: you know, all those wonderful little tools he used to use to make his mind-blowing ceramic art. A lot of them are found objects: a toothbrush handle, a cheese cutter, a rubber spatula. I separated them according to function and size, and put them all in plastic bags and then into one of those Rubbermaid boxes I can’t live without. I cried a lot. I wanted to scream, but it would scare my little dog. Times like this, I wish she had a temporary “off” switch so that I could just go ahead and scream without having to worry about somebody else’s feelings.
Tomorrow I have a busy day. I won’t get to the next thing on my list, which is wiping the mold off of all my books and putting them in the bookcases, after wiping the mold off the bookcases first. Yes, you read right: mold. The bane of the asthmatic: and I am an asthmatic.
You see, it is so humid here, on the cliff above the river, that while I was away for ten weeks resting in the bosom of Jerusalem, the humidity was at work making mold over all of my belongings. Everything. Furniture, clothes, even (and I am deeply offended at this) my banjo strap, that I made out of leather in 1974. Arrrrgh! One step forward, two steps back.
But on the other hand, I’m sitting here wheezing, listening to Queen on Pandora, my little doggie asleep tucked under my right elbow. I spent the day with my old dad, who was lucid enough today to have a deep discussion about ceramic glaze chemistry. We both love chemistry. It’s just that most of the time, his brain refuses to cooperate, so we can’t discuss much and he goes to sleep. But today was one of those increasingly rare days when relative clarity allowed us to have a rare and precious conversation about some pretty technical stuff.
I’d better go take a nebulizer treatment and take my handful of pills so I can get up in the morning and drive to Asheville to see the disability lawyer and my psychologist, now that I’m a certified Nutter.