Take it from me, Sweethearts, and I am the expert in falling into holes: Some projects are best never started.
Why? Because to finish them is the devil’s own job. One moment you amble along happily, the next I get a bee in my bonnet. When I, full of the zealot’s zeal, tell the Angel that I am on a “roll” he is happy. Two weeks later he asks me why I appear to be stuck in the jungle. I don’t know. Let’s leave aside that my eyesight is now so shit it’s like wading through fog. Let’s leave aside that I inherited (from my father) that most unfortunate trait of things having to be just so. Ever since part of my life and believes collapsed a few years ago I tell the Angel (correction, I tell myself by way of mantra and to soothe shattered nerves) that before order there is chaos. And it’s true. I have proven it so many times I’d qualify as something … a chaos expert. God. The Universe. Before it all went pear shape in paradise.
Back to “best never start anything”, particularly if you intend to bring it to a satisfactory end. I remember my great grandmother (paternal side). She was tiny even before she shrunk in her old age. To the last she was independent (she lived well into her nineties). She was the wife of a painter (my great grand father). He died early, and her daughter (a portrait paint) lived with her. My great aunt a person full of mystique. When I was young they lived in a mansion, rambling. An Aladin’s Cave for the very young me. Circumstances reduced them to move to a much smaller house. Yes, how to cram a quart into a pint pot. Have been there, done that. So, to my then, say, ten year old self, their abode right on the shore of the sea became even more of an Aladin’s Cave. Treasure (and cobwebs) wherever I nosed about. It was brilliant. It was phantastic. Then my aunt died, some years later my great grandmother. Enter my own father. Oh, my god. I still haven’t forgiven him – and we are talking decades. He ordered a skip. And made order out of chaos as only he can. Unfortunately, at that time I was freshly married and marooned in England, under my husband’s watchful thumb. So I couldn’t intervene. A shocker if ever there was one. Never mind. I am having the same conversation with my father now that, sooner or later, he’ll be on his way out. I besiege him not to throw away all his files and folders of “intellectual property”. Forget it. I know exactly what I’ll find: Zilch. He’ll probably scrub and desinfect the place before he takes his last breath.
Where was I: My own shambles. I need people, say, a secretary, an IT wizzard, my sister-in-law (if ever there was Ms Efficiency no barrels held it’s her), a cold compress, and most of all, and dearest sweetest hearts, count your blessings if you have it: SPACE. Apart from time, SPACE is the ultimate luxury. The less space the more organized you need to be, the less forgiving daily life is.
To be continued … If you can find me that is.
No hugs today, only a hiss from underneath the mountain,