Conjecture

Motivation

I don't think that even a stick of dynamite up my butt would motivate me right now.  The real estate market is dead flat, hardly anyone looking at houses, hardly any listing houses.  It'll pick up, it always does.  In the meantime I could (should) be doing things to try and generate some business.  I'm not.

Or I could focus really hard on redesigning one of my websites.  I'm not.  I could be working on the house.  Nope, not doing that either. 

What am I doing?  Flitting.  I start something and then turn to something else.  Everything is 1/4 done so I have no sense of having accomplished anything in the day.  Maybe I should just pack it in and watch movies for a couple of days.

This has happened in the past.  I wish I could remember what got me out of the slump.

Jericho

Here’s what happens when you don’t ever take your kids to church or Sunday school, you think of a great title like Jericho for a piece and you know, that even after she reads the piece, your 30 year old daughter won’t have a clue why you called it Jericho. Unless she googles it.

Today, finally, after 2 ¼ years, we’re starting the process of installing stairs. Real stairs. With risers. And a handrail. I go to Narbonne to pick them up in an hour or so. As I type there’s a three man crew taking down the bedroom wall. Once they’ve got that done they’ll be cutting making the hole in the floor bigger. Today preparation, tomorrow the stairs.

Admit it baby, you didn’t get the reference, did you?

the crew, consulting

How many men does it take to sink a screw?

Lynne is carefully avoiding the excess testosterone that's in the air.

Early onset alzheimer's????

It's possible that I now have some small idea about what it must be like to be in the early stages of Alzheimer's.  I don't think  I am, I think I had an episode of some kind of dyslexia.  Or that some part of my brain took over and wouldn't let any other parts contribute. Or that it was about 45 degrees in the train.

I was going to Orly Airport from Paris.  Decided to take the train.  Actually two metros and two (or three) trains.   You take the RER B2 from St Michel to Anthony and then take the Orlyval to Orly.  Easy, right?  Except I could not process Anthony.  I knew it was an English name so I wasn't too worried.  How many stations could there be on that line with an English name?  Two.  Anthony and Robinson.  It's actually the B4 train that goes to Anthony, the B2 goes to Robinson.  The line splits at Bourg-Lareine. 

So I ended up at Robinson because I missed the part about having to get off at Bourg-Lareine and change trains.  Caught the next train back to Bourg-Lareine.  Read all the signs, went to the platform, got the next train, kept reading the stations to make sure I was going in the right directions, and ended up at .... Robinson!  Again!  Feeling a bit panicky.

Got the next train back to Bourg-Lareine.  Read the signs again.  Went to a different platform.  A train pulled in just as I got to the platform.  I leapt on and hoped against hope that it was going to Anthony because I just couldn't process the names of the stations.  I didn't really believe I was on the right train til it arrived at Anthony.

It was not a pleasant experience.  On some level I knew what I had to do but I just couldn't get my brain to communicate it.  It's the kind of thing I experience when I try and work from a diagram I can't really translate the image into reality.   I've had to call people to come and do things that really are fairly straight forward.  I was making curtains and could not pleat them - the diagram confused me so.  I was trying to cut and mitre a piece of quarter round.  The piece was  6 feet long and I needed about 8 inches.  After a lot of cuts I was down to about a foot of trim. 

This is the first time I've experienced that kind of confusion with words.  Very disconcerting.  I don't think I have early onset Alzheimer's but if anyone notices me doing bizarre things maybe they could let me know.

Barbed Wire Dress

I think I wear a barbed wire dress. I can’t feel it, but it’s there. Six inches away from my body, held in place with gossamer straps and bands. Bondage I can’t feel. Is it keeping me in or keeping you out? Can you see it? Have you felt it?  Do you have wire cutters?

Music in the air

When there's a portable fan running I hear music.  Distant music, the kind you hear on a summer night when your neighbour has the radio playing softly.  Far away music, but music.  Tonight it sounds like a classical piece, maybe Tchaikovsky. 

The funny thing is that every fan makes different music.  Last year the fan in the bedroom played some old rock and roll tune. 

So far I think it's a fan phenomenon rather than a psychosis.  The toaster hasn't told me to wear a tinfoil hat.  Which makes me think of people who get messages from God.  People like Moses.  Was he any different than the person who gets a message from the toaster?  Enquiring minds want to know!

My worst nightmare

Sometime this afternoon, between 12.30 and 4.30, I apparently turned into my mother. Lauren looked at me in horror and said ‘you look just like grandma. It looks like grandma’s face landed on your head, or like you’re wearing a grandma mask.’

She grabbed the camera and took three pictures to prove it. We then picked the most grandma-like and cropped it to show the grandma mask. 

She’s right. I look just like my mother. I know it happened this afternoon because at lunch I looked like me.

It’s my worst nightmare, that I’ll turn into my mother. The severest insult that my brothers and I can throw at each other, the one bound to get attention, is “You’re just like mother!!!” 

This reminds me of the day 20 years ago in Barbados when I woke up to find that my tits had drooped in the night. “Must be the humidity” Fred said. My terrific tits had dropped about 3 inches, maybe even 4! And stayed there. 

What if my face stays this way? I’ll never be able to look in a mirror again.

The Louvre

We went to the Louvre this morning. Right at 9 so we wouldn’t have to stand in a long line. It’s been 20 years since I was at the Louvre. I don’t remember all the lines. We made a beeline for the Mona Lisa. They have ropes to guide you through, like bank lines. It’s still as small as ever and I still don’t understand what all the fuss is.

The wing that it’s in houses Italian paintings from the 15 and 16 hundreds. Almost all of them cleaned and restores to within an inch of their lives. The colours glow. In a way it’s wonderful but I have to confess, I miss the patina of age. In the Louvre too, it’s all very clean, bright, and hygienic. We didn’t see the Venus de Milo but I think we saw her husband.

This afternoon we went to the Tuileries. It’s such a great park. No school on Wednesday afternoon in France so there were lots of kids with grandparents. And lots of little kids with their nannies. Also men playing boules.

And always good to see that Parisian chic lives!