I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since. At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about. I had not met commitment-phobes. I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference. While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments. But now, I do fear. I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons. It's another age.
Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step. I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper. The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion. But I couldn't stay down.
Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous. Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs. And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop. Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast. My home is a pixellated hell.
I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops. Troy and Brian check in: time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors. The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN: Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last, it is giving up the ghost. Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next. Now I know.
In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.
D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions. He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.
Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark: Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference. As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up. I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question. It reads, simply, "help." I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically: "Desperately needing help with something." It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else. But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else. Not my problem any more.
Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance. It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up. They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.
Okay: all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour. I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy. Wow, this one features an earthquake! It's like an original Star Trek episode: the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.
Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.
Do I dare to eat a peach?
Here we go! 11:59. The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county. I expected it, since I'm early, and try again. This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match. It's 12:00. Again, no funds. I am too exhausted to be furious. Doggedly I try again. And again. And again. And....I'm in!
Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms. There is more to do but....I'M IN!
I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit. The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance. D calls several times on his errands. I send more messages into the ether. I read the responses. My head still hurts. Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.
The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over. Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop. I am too tired to pick up and I am confused: where did this mess come from? I just sat in front of glowing screens. I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic. I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes. I brought in the mail. WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?
D blames me. He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it. He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself. Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard. Says he.
No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...
We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this. Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels. This, for example, found posted on Facebook. Or this. Or this. There are some amazing things in the world.
Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow. Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.
And indeed there will be time.
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