An ossuary in the closet

I read somewhere that Franz Kafka thought he was writing comedies and was dismayed that people didn't laugh when they read his books, and that Jaroslav Hasek thoughthe was writing tragedies and was dismayed when people did laugh.

I don't know if it's true.

But this thing I've been writing is supposed to be a romantic comedy, andit just gets less and less funny. And as for the romance: well, our guy's just having the pieces picked up by our other guy.

I'm about five hundred words shy of the length I thought I would stop it at, and I've found myself in a whole that would take ten times that to get out of. If I want it to end the way I want it to, in an upbeat crescendo. I may have to tear the last chapter down and redo it.

But this chapter has produced one of my favorite lines so far: "Some people have a skeleton or two in their closets, Skip, but you've got a whole ossuary."

He does, too. But I may decide to throw out the last horrible revelation as being too dark for the tone of the rest of the book. I don't know.

I told the people who were reading it as I wrote it that they know what happens in the last chapter, and I didn't really have to write it, now, did I? But I was being disingenuous. They really don't.

And now I'm a little less sure I do, either.

On another front, when I told the latest painter I couldn't afford $6900 and I was probably going to do it myself (read: "hire my friend the window washer") he started backing and filling and saying not to give up. But he also says he has a lot of work right now and can't do it right away. I don't know what the deal is. I wasn't bargaining.

But I'm really going to ask Paul.

And the termite people never called again.

But the tree people are coming to look at the almond trees on Monday.

Insert usual whinge about missing the nice fellow and how hard it is to do anything without him.

And it's really cold, even for "normal summer pattern weather."

A Theory

So Zack says he found several rat nests and access points in my bedroom when he opened the walls. And rat turds everywhere. Have I mentioned that when I had an allergy test after my one and only full-on asthma attack, the only thing in the whole battery I responded to was rat epithelial tissue, and I responded plus four: which means immediate hives and itchy respiratory system (I mean I felt it when I breathed, but I didn' have any trouble breathing). They had a fast-acting antihistamine (which I think I should have some of). It's gotten worase over the years. I can't go into small pet stores. I was uncomfortable in Emma's bathroom when she kept her pet mice there.

So, my head thing? Where I can't get out of the present moment and plan and think straight? Where I can't remember what I'm doing, even if I want to do it? I don't follow up on things? For years I've noticed a lightness of head and clarity of mind when I travel. That could be emotional, you know, the new experiences getting me going.

Or it could be that my brain fog and befuddlitude is from a constant low-level exposure to rat epithelial tissue over the last thirty-two years.