Tough Enough
May 15, 2008
I had a nice day today because most of it consisted of heavy lifting. Did you know that we were built for heavy lifting and a lack of lifting is the no. 1 cause of depression. Take a look at your ancestral tree. We all have an Aunt Ella, running a farm at 92, finally collapsing during a hot day till of the North Forty, at 103. I drove to Burlington and loaded a used refrigerator and stove into and onto my station wagon. I unloaded them and plugged them in. I cleaned them. I installed an air conditioner. I carried firewood down to the beach. I chain-sawed the dead branches off my pines. I sawed and nailed lattice under the deck. I recut a kitchen island to fit the new space. I dragged a dead old refrigerator out of the camp and put it into the car. I dragged an old freezer into the Quanset hut for future resale. Then, it’s five o’clock. Then, it’s done. Now that the physical labor is finished, I feel only regret. Any time you make improvements you are punished with higher taxes. You are also punished by the law of entropy, which suggests that any improvements you make will eventually, if not immediately, begin to deteriorate, leaving you with twice as much work as before with only a slight improvement in your living situation.
I had a perfectly good single hot-plate burner and an ice chest. The ice chest stayed as cold as the ice I put in it. The hot plate had two, uh, speeds, — high and off. High worked fine. Off, even better. I just went to the “new” refrigerator and it isn’t quite cold enough to chill the wine. The “new” electric stove has a very large pronged plug to which I am not familiar or accustomed. Must I rewire the “shed?”
Have I learned my lesson? No. I will now spend a few days, full days, asking for refrigerator and stove advice. Electrician? Refrigerator coolant supervisor?
And I did spend 250 dollars today on both refrigerator and stove. That is 250 dollars that could have gone toward a one way ticket to Morocco, where refrigerators and stoves are considered a nuisance. Better yet, the 250 dollars could have been spent as a nice French restaurant with friends, my daughter, brother. Two bottles of Dom Perignon. Where has my mind gone? It’s this horrible existence as a property owner! As the “owner” of houses, sheds, studios, whatever the hell they are, on an acre of lake front misery.
Take me back to the freedom of an artist’s poverty. Now I understand.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.