Dear Reader,
The neighbors are painting their house purple! This is not a drill! Word Raccoon is so excited! While she’d like a purple house (maybe), the next best thing, or perhaps even better, is getting to gaze at one while she writes.
Tile update, damnable tiles: six more finished today. Only eight more to go, and that might actually become seven if WR gets turned loose on the one beneath the light. She wants to make it a feature tile.
By our calculations, the tiles should be finished tomorrow. There might be a bit of shifting to do, and if that doesn’t work, perhaps a little caulk, but we are officially in the homestretch. Both WR and I will be absurdly relieved when they’re done.
WR is no longer permitted to ask, “How hard could it be?” about anything, because the answer is always, “Much harder and much more time-consuming than you imagined.”
Oh, and above the tiles we discovered the very paint color that WR suggested for the dining room, only I decided on a lighter shade (when we do paint) because Stanley said it was too dark. He’s not wrong. The room is asking to be returned to its original state, I reckon.
Before we tackled the tiles today, we wrote a poem called “A Quiet Tuesday Morning.” Not an inspired title, but it was before 7 a.m., Herbert! WR was simply happy I let her write something.
Our doctor suggested a novel yesterday she thought we might enjoy, Clear by Carys Davies, and this morning I discovered the audiobook on Libby. We listened while we moaned and complained about ceiling tiles, resorted to pruning shears for the tougher sections, and wondered whether perhaps gloves would have been the wiser choice after all.
We actually finished the entire novel this morning.
It’s a historical novel about an impoverished Scottish minister, John Ferguson, who accepts a task he despises because he desperately needs the money: traveling to a remote island to evict its sole inhabitant, Ivar, so the landlord can replace one human being with more profitable sheep.
When Ivar saves John’s life after a terrible fall and nurses him back to health, the two men slowly form a bond despite the language barrier.
It’s gorgeously written. Perfect for a rainy morning. Perfect for engaging the brain when you’d like, even briefly, to forget ceiling tiles exist.
And we did.
For a little while.
We’re so over the ceiling tile.
Er…I suppose we’re technically under it, but you get the idea.
I still think these House Gorgeous (not to be confused with the lesser House Beautiful, a pedestrian project title that WR refuses to endorse) improvements are in service of poetry, somehow.
As I wrote in my notebook poem this morning about the ceiling tiles,
…And I lifted my arms,
And
I lifted my arms,
And
I lifted
my
Heart.
My heart,
Drema
P.S. I have an extra copy of TLR with “Comfort Eagle” in it if anyone wants to claim it locally; sorry, can’t ship it.Â