2006/magical

On the sofa
with the French
doors in the
dining room open.
The view that
enraptures me.
The thick branches
of the magical oak
dip and swoop,
dissecting the
door-framed view.
Making life seem
beautiful –
reminding me
that it is.
Sometimes you
brush against
the magic that
enshrouds us,
like a web-spun
moth,
against all odds,
breaking free.

But that is
not the real
story here.
The real story
is the dusty
white table,
its chairs tilted
against the rim,
the way I do,
hoping to keep
the seats clean,
so I can sit
without wiping.
An effort as vain
as such efforts
tend to be.
But it helps –
really – it does.
The table is
the real story.
Radiating energy
in the dappled
shade.
Neglected all summer
I think, not much
use for two years
while the house suffered
its disruptions
and upheavals.
Some from unsought
damage and some
in the struggle
for progress and
improvement.
My persistent
dream of transformation.
What a hell
that has been.
The old sofa
blocking the dining
room door,
where I sat
sipping tea,
trying to wake up,
trying to hold on,
crying from exhaustion
at night.
Two new sofas
came and went.
Now the same
old sofa is back
in its same old
spot.
And the outdoor
table, glistening
in spite of or
because of its
dust is calling
me back to
my life.

9/8/06

Neglected all summer I think, not much use for two years while the house suffered its disruptions and upheavals. Some from unsought damage and some in the struggle for progress and improvement. My persistent dream of transformation. What a hell that has been. The old sofa blocking the dining room door, creating a cell-size area where I put a portion of my desk, enough to hold the lap top and printer. A few necessary books, market books and dictionary, notebooks of all my work tucked in the baker’s rack that held baskets and plants when life was in tact. When floors were ripped up and walls knocked out that was my place. A bare hole in the bathroom looking down to the ground. Stress, such as only your home owners insurance can deliver, the mold abatement crew in their demolition glee ripping knocking out my saltillo tiles, making me realize I lived in a mud hut. The string of strange men who came in to bid on work. Some obvious drunks, red around the edges. Halitosis. Belligerent personalities. Looking for a painter who would put up the dry wall. But first the struggle to find someone who would build back the bathroom floor. Which led me to “not a problem” Robert recommended by Drywall Bob, the name he called himself. A few days work that took a couple of weeks or more. Notaproblem had a problem with the materials on the walls, things wouldn’t set up and dry. Refusing to accept that things that were supposed to set up in five minutes hadn’t and so he kept re-doing it the same way, despite my suggestion he give it twenty-four hours. He left one Friday and never came back to finish the job, leaving me with wavy walls, dry wall that extended past the door frames and gaps that didn’t get filled in – a good job for Stevie Wonder, as another contractor said. The thing they like second to demolition, which really lights up their eyes, is criticizing another guy’s work. The hot water heater, which started the problem, went in and came out several times, Every thing that was done, was done, re-done, put in, removed, moved in and out and in and out. I was dizzy from it. And tormented. In ways I can’t now recall. At least not the precise details of what happened.

401 words to this point – of prose

9/8/06