It’s another day in Paradise. Well, no, you shut up; it is so paradise; if you’re a mosquito. The locals insist that there’s a lot to recommend this place. They almost have to. I was a local once, I sort of did that, I also left this place thousands of times. I say that a lot, well not the thousands which is hyperbole, but in the journal where I’ve told road stories (shut up again y’all, I’m cross posting, I have shit to do and I’ll be good and god damned if I’m going to write a different entry per journal per day) this was the launching point.
Time does funny things. A few years back I was getting in touch with old friends, a way of girding my mental and emotional loins for the eventual surety of coming here, back to mid-Michigan. We shared stories of stories we shared. The thing is they make no sense time wise. I’ve said that I spent three years hitch-hiking around North America because it’s easier than saying I traveled for a month or two, came back for a week or two, travelled for a week or two came back for a month, and, honestly, the hitch-hiking and the staying put extended years in both directions, just not as concentrated and in the latter years used Portland as the launching point.
The thing is; the different stories I shared with different friends almost would have had to have happened at the same time, some events having more than two facets happening simultaneously. I’m tired of bitching about being here, I came on purpose and there have been some real upsides, not the least of which being a real life test of finding beauty in all things. It’s just that I never expected to be here again, I just didn’t.
There’s a place about --- shit, I’m going to have to Google it, I can’t guess very well at the distance --- at the east/central part of the UP that is the nearest power place I know of, and I need to go there before the heavy snows hit and the lake freezes. There are reasons I haven’t gone yet, like the six month numb arm cumulating in the nerve surgery. Like the roller coaster of rage and grief and loss and losing my bearings, and the flat tracks of being here to be of some use. I haven’t talked about money. I’m not going to. But money is a factor too. When I think of myself as a directionless guy on the downslope of middle age living in my parents attic I think about money. When I’m throwing that sort of pity party money is an issue, but that’s not what I’m doing here in mid-Michigan.
For a short time the plan was to move my folks out to Oregon. One of the reasons for that is beginning to vindicate me; with my fathers impaired movement a house with basically four stories (The living/dining/kitchen area, a full basement, the floor with the bedrooms, and the attic) has become a one story house --- I’m the only one who can access things like the shower or the washer/dryer. The idea of Oregon involved a ranch style home where all services were on a single level. Among the recent discussions the idea of ranch style here has come up. It’s still my gut feeling that this house is one of the things holding my father together. That’s neither a positive nor negative thing but I believe it’s a true thing; it’s why I abandoned the idea of Oregon. Here it would make more sense to go into assisted living than it would to get a ranch style home. I think either would destroy my dad. I’m not really here for him though; I’m here for my mom. I don’t think she’d come back out of assisted living, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing, I mean I’m not sure that would destroy her --- though, unlike my father, she’s not as tied to this place, mid-Michigan.
Yesterday all the supplies came for painting. Today the paint comes. There are rice paper lamps coming, a hand vac, several effusion lamps because, honestly, if you bid the opening bid on eBay you will win it. Nobody buys those things, not on auctions. Perhaps the buy it now’s at fifty to a hundred and fifty sell like hot cakes, I don’t know, some are coming that cost me five, the more expensive ones cost me fifteen. There are a few pipes coming. There are special dryer sachets and detergent coming, effusion lamp oil, and Christ I don’t know what all --- oh yeah, a low profile extension cord and light socket converter (the fixture in the attic are bare bulbs, naked and ugly. I’d feel stupid hiring an electrician and have to listen to him/her tell me the wiring in this house is seventy years old. I’m sure I’d shock myself several time --- the positive and the ground are both dusty brown and the insulation powders to the touch. So I’m Gerry rigging a solution that though wacky will be more elegant). This has mostly a psychological purpose; to remove the temporary state of things, though the lamps for the living room are more for aesthetics.
I don’t know, that might have been the point of this entry; if I am missing for a few days it’s because the computer is under a tarp.
And I’m spent.
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