The Passover dinner is bubbling on the stove and I am sitting on the couch across the big room, surfing the web and feeling guilty that I’m not over in the kitchen cooking. I’m sitting on the couch because I was feeling guilty, while cooking, because I wasn’t working on my renewed Cleaning House project, which is chugging along nicely. It’s hard to set priorities when you don’t know what’s what. That’s the beauty of an outside job with a real live flesh-and-blood boss. He or she tells you what to do. The truth is you’re never really sure what you should be doing when you are working for and by yourself.
While writing this blog post devoted to nature, I looked up from the computer to see a pretty big raccoon enjoying a handful of nuts I put out for the much smaller squirrel who used to come and eat them. But a whole winter has passed and either the semi-trained squirrel has forgotten or worse, he’s gone forever. The raccoon is taking quite a long time to eat a rather sparse collection of nuts that have been sitting on the porch for a while now. They’ve been rained on a couple of times … so they must be pretty tasteless.
There is sound, if not music, in the rattling of dead curled leaves caught in all the spider webs of winter when I open the windows for the first time this Spring. Music is only created by the live ones; sounds are what happens when the corpse or more politely, the corpus is rattled around and tossed in the webs of time. Descendants and buffs will try to interpret your songs, but the sublime music is long gone.
The need to chronicle and to record runs very deep, and in the early Fall it’s ever more so. You can smell it in the air – that damned crispness. I welcome it a little after the really hot and humid summer we’ve just experienced, which included never turning on the air conditioning once. Because: the unyielding budget. And we’re old and getting frailer by the hour.
The chainsaws whine loudly, the temple suggests you calculate your sins and make reparations; the linens need ironing, and my online reputation must be rebuilt, to accommodate my old work and new.
So, the brand new radio gig is no more. Boo hoo. I had been sick with minor flu-like symptoms, and the effects linger a tiny bit. Boo hoo. I am 68 years old and am still neglecting my core mission. Really big boo hoo. Still, this stuff adds up and the oddly placed boos and hoos are only there as windows of distraction for any internet trolls who might be cruising by.