December 29. 8:00 a.m. My daughter informs me that Omar, the Painter, will arrive on Wednesday to paint my room.
“My room” is yellow. I’ve been here for three years, temporarily. The encampment – a tale of unfaithful former spouses and boyfriends – is the subject for another day.
It is now 1:15 pm.
I’m hearing voices. “Why don’t you follow the “Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up Japanese Method”?
I have developed the Life-Or-Death-Round-Eye-Clutter-Buster Method. No Zen. Not an ounce of organization.
Simply stated, “What would happen to this [book, knick-knack, scarf, Nixon T-shirt, golden sealing wax, or collection of 351 #2 Ticonderoga pencils] . . . IF I WERE DEAD?”
I picture my daughters, one holds the plastic popping Santa I’ve had since 1968. The other, waves a scarf an old lover bestowed upon me after his visit to Paris, with another woman. At their feet, the cast-iron popover pan, bequeathed to me by my father [DO NOT EVER use soap and water].
All right. I’m dead.
And so it goes. Today I died a thousand deaths.