My traditional snow day debauchery is postponed because it is actually that bad. People have driven up my street. Not people in Miatas.
I’ve been clicking through job applications, ready to change that part of my life, which is huge, and then I heard my home might actually be sold, that someone might actually come here and say, “I own this, so you have to go” which, you know, I think is surreal. I went to see “Lincoln” for President’s Day. People owning people. People owning property without knowing the plants on it, the sounds the building makes at night, the history of the place, the way it looks when it rains hard, and where the ice stays the longest. I don’t know about that. Now clicking through apartment rentals, too.
We cleaned up after the mansion Mardi Gras ball. I counted forty bottles, some used to have whiskey. Friends took a lot of trash bags to the curb. I mopped the floor where the champagne tower fell.
The coronet and the stethoscope are still missing. Friends have claimed: a map of Kansas City, some shelves. I took a string of robin’s egg blue beads, the men’s locker room sign, and two rococco pictures– white wigged ladies gambolling in fields– with plastic frames. They have “manufactured by” stamped on the back. I broke the plastic Last Supper picture during the cleanup. The plastic snake we left entangled in the front gate.
I’ll be fine. I am rich in many respects that matter, which becomes more obvious in times of transition. What will become of me? she wails melodramatically. Rich in emotional management, friends and allies, resume, and, sometimes, faith.
My driveway is so perfect. It’s a lot of snow. It makes a perfect blank. As I alternate reading and watching videos, my cat alternates time with me and personal time doing whatever cats do with their personal time. I have a memoir by a bartender, which is engaging enough, but flawed enough that I’m thinking, my book is better. It hangs better. I have weeded out more of the telling. Recently reread Stephen King on that: everyone has a book that made them think they could write a better one.
A little time on “Lost” island, a little time in Bartlet’s White House. Dyed my hair and cut it. Plenty of other little chores left: dishes, scrubbing, folding.
Recently finished “Invisible Man,” which I don’t understand, and thus I love like I love “Taxi Driver.” Reading a little novel by Hawthorne now. I hated “Scarlet Letter” and I love his short stories. Thought I should see why he’s supposed to be a great novelist. Hawthorne’s narrator is at a commune griping about the distinctly un-utopian experiences he has there. Some virgin-whore stuff, weird views of women, which I guess I could have expected. I like it, though.
Jackson County courts are closed. If they are closed tomorrow, there will not be an auction to sell my home. It also might not happen because it’s scheduled for the wrong courthouse. The snow stops everything.