It’s given over to a low-level sort of sadness that is not necessarily unpleasant. It’s reflective. It’s kind. It gives me a bit of time to rest without the sun blazing through the windows and begging me to come out come out wherever I am.
And something tells me that I’m not doing this day right at all. I should be tucked away in my bedroom with all the covers on and the ceiling fan turned to high. I should have the lights dimmed and candles lit and a nag champa incense stick burning in a teak holder on the dresser. Instead I am in the office, which is paused and messy in mid-organization, and am taking a break from making copies of pertinent paperwork to write this. I am having an affair with my responsibilities; I am fucking my writing instead.
I had a bad week, confidence-wise. I have stalled on two projects and am full of trepidation even thinking of starting another. I am falling into old patterns. Maybe there is nothing wrong with that; we leave in a few days for Ohio, then another few days until Florida, and then the summer will be fading away so maybe I should just spend this time before I start school to rest. I will be moving so fast soon. I might regret not hiding under the covers when I had the chance.
Many of the homes I cleaned belonged to those of well-off, elderly couples. Their homes were full of tasteful art, bronze sculptures, and ancient rugs woven out of soft fine thread. These clients were often home, which I didn’t mind. They might sit in their study and read, or wait in the kitchen drinking coffee at the table until I was ready to sweep and mop the marble floor or scrub out the porcelain sink with a sponge and some Comet. If we crossed paths I would usually smile and comment on some of the books I had noticed laying on one of the end tables or how much I liked the new oil painting in the hall. I tried to ignore the beige plastic “Life Alert” alarm buttons that were hidden underneath their beds; I didn’t want to think of these kind and refined people as being impermanent.
Several of these couples lived in upscale condominiums, built in the fifties, when condominium meant “large apartment” instead of “cookie cutter townhome with baby-crib-size backyard”, as tends to be the case today. These condominiums were time-stamps, the lobbies were full of brass (on the stair rail, on the elevator, on the doors), crystal chandeliers, and jungle murals rivaling the skill and depth of Rousseau paintings. The carpets were in jeweled colors; the garages were in the basement and a valet was on staff to park the many Lincolns and Rolls Royces that had been bought with cash and cared for like children.
Also, have you seen it yet? It is a work of genius, sent straight from heaven and the angel’s name is Wes Anderson. I mean it: