Reading: The Archivist

Moving: walked 2.7 miles

Watching: "Brazil"

Listening: "Don't Break This Rhythm" on infinite repeat

22 August 2000: Don't Break This Rhythm

We slacked on the house for several weeks before we went on vacation, and after vacation we tore through some projects before our first houseguests, and since we've slacked again until this weekend.

Saturday morning found us lying companionably together on the kitchen floor, staring under the dishwasher (whose face was off), and looking for the leak we thought was probably in a hose. Saturday afternoon found us (after consulting whatsthebestdishwasher.com) in Sears looking for a dishwasher to replace the one with the blown gasket currently rotting out our floorboards.

I had a to-do list. "Replace dishwasher hose" was on it; "Buy new dishwasher" was not. We improvised. Earlier in the day we went to Home Depot (and I crossed off "Go to Home Depot" and the attendant shopping list). There, we found dishwashers priced at $300 and below, including the model we endured in our apartment. I shouldn't say "endured." I loved having a dishwasher, having lived without one in our tenement. It was ten times louder than the sun, though, and we ran it only right before going to bed or leaving the house because you couldn't read or watch television or think with it on. I wouldn't've expected it, but Sears had the model we wanted, a service plan, and installation. I'm on dishwashing duty until the 28th.

Speaking of Home Depot, hooray! Over a year ago the Builder's Square on Colorado Boulevard went belly-up. Since we were living in an apartment, we didn't care. Then a new Alfalfa's sprang up in its parking lot, and we were delighted because the parking for the one in Cherry Creek North was impossible. (And now we're also grocery shopping at the renovated Safeway on Sixth & Corona in Capitol Hill, whose parking is just as ample.) Anyway, the Builder's Square building remained empty, and then we saw signs for EMS and wondered why it was going to move into such a large building when no one in Colorado cares about Eastern Mountain Sports anyway, especially since the new gargantuan flagship REI had just opened in April. Last week we realized EMS was only going in the other half of the Alfalfa's building and Home Depot was opening in the Builder's Square building, and there was much rejoicing.

So anyway.

Another project was to replace the dryer hose, which had been venting into, and thus heating up, the basement instead of blowing outside. Vacuuming who knows how many months worth of dryer lint from behind there was fun. And the dryer's fine, even. As I told RDC, though, appliance-wise I would much rather have the dryer be dead than the dishwasher. Using any energy, human or electric, to dry clothes or dishes is ridiculous. I can't put up a clothesline until we fix the fencepost, but after that, I'll peg out my clothes and our sheets and be very happy. RDC doesn't like line-dried clothing, and I agree with him about towels, but I can't wait for a clothesline. Right now I dry some stuff on a drying rack and other stuff on hangers hanging off doors. I used to use shower curtain rods, but the one downstairs uses all its strength holding only itself up, and there's not one upstairs. I want fresh air.

Speaking of needless expenditure of effort, RDC and I were washing dishes at a friend's house once in the usual guests-helping-out kind of way, companionably together while our hosts and other guests relaxed over wine. A daft eccentric other guest appeared in the kitchen, not to be outdone, wanting to dry. He got all het up about our rinsing in cold because rinsing in hot makes drying easier. Drying is not the most important element in washing dishe, getting them clean is; and rinsing should rinse and not be used to clean; and we were rinsing in cold water because cold water rinses soap residue more effectively than hot. Drying dishes is only important if there's no more room on the rack for wet dishes. And no one asked him to dry anyway, and two people were more effect than three when the third was daft and annoying and stood in the way of traffic. He didn't know where to put anything away anyway, so his drying didn't even serve to empty the dish drain. It only served to annoy. Okay, I already didn't like him, true, true, but now I disliked him more.

We looked at a few models of dishwashers, some with food disposals built in. I think that's kind of goofy, because you should compost your waste anyway (she says smarmily, now that she has a house). A German model had high energy efficiency but low cleanliness efficiency, and it's no good using less energy if you don't do as good a job. Besides, you couldn't turn off the dryer function in that model, as if dishes in a dishwasher need to be dried. Do people really fret that much about waterspots, and if they do, wouldn't a water-softener filter be more effective?

What else. RDC hung blinds in the bathroom and his study. We hung my picture in the bedroom.

Not a picture of me. Upwards of two months ago, HAO and I went shopping. We were disappointed in the Great Indoors, a store so huge it had a map, a store whose hugeness included nothing I wanted at all, leading to HAO shredding the map in the parking lot and stomping on the pieces (and picking them up and littering my car instead of lovely Littleton, Colorado). In Linens & Things I found a variety of stuff I wanted, and one thing I didn't need but wanted. A little print of lavender bluebell-like flowers and delicate leaves, matted on white and framed in silver-painted wood. We didn't have the bedroom furniture yet and I didn't want to hang the print until I got a sense of how tall the bureau was, and then RDC had a cow at the prospect of my driving a nail into his perfect paint job without his supervision, and time passed, and I feared my little picture would become the "Strictly Ballroom" of wall art.

More than five years ago a coworker lent me "Strictly Ballroom" on video. I wasn't particularly interested and never watched it, and even RDC when flat on his back with a busted collarbone and unable to hold a book above his face enough to read, preferred the O.J. Simpson trial to watching it, and the coworker quit and then I moved to Denver and what with one thing and another we've never ever watched this movie. It's become a joke.

So we hung my picture. I assembled a set of closet drawers for the back closet. He hung one closet rod in the front bedroom closet, the one that held the nasty particle board closet organizer thing that blocked access to the attic and had to be removed with a saw (it must have been assembled in place). He didn't hang two for the simple reason Home Depot hadn't had a dowel long enough, and there was room vertically to have done so except he hung the one he did hang at the usual height. I packed away clothing like the plaid miniskirt circa 1985 that I will never wear again but keep in fond remembrance of my once-upon-a-time legs.

And since that particle board organizer is long gone and we finally had the ladder in the closet to hang the rod, we looked in the attic. It's chock-full of insulation. There are three 6" square windows in the roof, not necessarily near the solar panels, purpose unknown. It was pretty scary looking altogether.

I don't know what to do with my hats, which currently live in boxes in my closet, or with my earrings since I don't want to prop my earring board against the wall (since I'm as protective of the paint job as RDC), but otherwise the bedroom is done for now.

We

• washed the walls and trim
• primed the walls and trim
• taped the walls and trim and windows
• visited with Beth & Jeremy and Jenn & Kevin for a bit
• painted the ceiling
• painted the ceiling
• painted the walls
• painted the walls
• painted the walls
• painted the trim
• painted the trim
• painted the trim
• painted the trim
• took the tape off
• bought a bed, bureau, and nightstand
• bought white electric switches, switch plates, and outlets
• measured for blinds
• decided on and bought blinds
• installed blinds
• bought a new lamp for me
• bought and installed two ceiling light fixtures in brushed steel and opaque white glass
• painted the closet doors
• bought brushed steel handles for the doors
• hung my picture and
• installed closet rods and closet drawers

I'd still like curtains, curtain rods, and finials, and to make a reading corner with a comfy white upholestered chair and a cozy rug and little table. And a new alarm clock. And a nightstand and lamp for RDC, since the halogen torchiere doesn't look right there and is more necessary in the living room.

As it is, it's a beautiful room.

Friday night we watched something or other on IFC and I stayed awake through it. No, I'm copping an attitude. I remember: We watched "American Pie" on Encore. Then I found "Aliens" on another movie channel. I don't know what it is about men and these Alien movies. This was the second time in my life I've watched this movie (or a part of it), and the second time in my life I've watched it with a man, and I've still never seen all of it because the two men have both gotten other ideas during it. I've changed the man but not my mind: I refuse to combine fear with sexual arousal, so the movie went off.

Saturday night we planned to watch "I Want You"--a regular, not soft-core film, despite its name--on IFC or Sundance but I fell asleep a half-hour through. Sunday night RDC was watching the remake of "High Noon" with Tom Skerrit and I fell asleep. Yesterday my long-awaited and much beloved Criterion Collection edition of "Brazil" arrived and I fell asleep during that, despite its being one of my favorite movies and one I haven't seen for seven years (because after seeing the European cut at Trinity I refused to watch the mere U.S. release). I fall asleep before 9:00, but I've been waking up around 4:00 and 5:00. Meanwhile, RDC has been awake until 1:00 or later and waking up after 8:00. Who knows.

Now, Sunday I had an excuse to be tired. A reason. I have no excuse to be in as bad shape as I am, and if I'd been in better shape a simple walk in Chatauqua wouldn't've tired me so. All this time, we've gone to RMNP to hike, or just Red Rocks if we want something closer. Red Rocks has no water and few trees. To Chatauqua, therefore, we should hie ourselves more often. We walked? hiked?--only four miles round trip so not far enough for a hike, but more strenuous than a walk--to Royal Arch. It was lovely and hot and clear over the plains and cloudy over the mountains.

On the way up, we saw one of the black foothills squirrels. They look as big as rabbits or cats to me, probably because they have such big sticky-up ears that they look more like other animals than squirrels. They are bigger than western squirrels, though, and walk more than scurry. (And western squirrels are, in turn, bigger than eastern ones.)

Another phenomenon we encountered was big rumbly thunder, before we left the trailhead even. But go we did, through the dry stillness, up into ponderosa forest where the air was suffused with vanilla (which is what the trees smell like), through dry creek beds and actual deciduous forest, up steeper sections where I nearly needed hands, and finally to what would have been Royal Arch if the skies hadn't opened right then.

It was lovely to walk in the rain, to jump down rock by slippery rock, to laugh about rain with the other hikers who all thronged downward, to hike amongst their dogs even when those dogs were big Weimararners totally underfoot, to get thoroughly wet. RDC put on his parka; I left mine in my fanny pack. We watched the climbers on the Flatiron above us (#3) and wondered how fast they could repell away from lightning. It was lovely.

It was lovely despite my wearing prescription sunglasses that I couldn't remove, because I had had some sort of Spidey prescience and wore a billed cap. I almost never wear baseball caps. I never have, even when my hair wasn't insulation enough. I don't like them. But 3SK gave me a big shirt and cap at my surprise birthday party, emblazoned "Summer Reading" and sprinkled with images of books, lawn chairs, books, sippy drinks, books, and maybe a hammock. Somehow I wore this cap today, with my braid through the hole at the back, and its bill kept the rain off my glasses. Another thing to be grateful to my family for.

We stopped in Boulder for lunch, parking at the library and walking to Pearl Street like the tourists we are, eating at the Boulder Café and popping into Peppercorns lusting after kitchen implements afterward. I still don't know much about Boulder besides tourist things because I've barely been there: with PSA once, when we both knew nothing, and with RDC once, when we both knew very little. The time with PSA was nearly three years after my second visit; my first two visits got me only as far as the All Pets 24-Hour Clinic. I have a problem with Boulder in that I can't arrive there without beating myself up about Percy; that clinic, where I abandoned Percy to die, is not only in Boulder but immediately off the highway, where I must confront it like a gauntlet before entering the town. Thus I don't know where the Ramseys' house was or where the Mork & Mindy house was (that sort of Victorian, wooden with lots of gingerbread, is extremely atypical for a western house, a Boulder house). It's time for me to get over that, though, and make myself at home, so at the library I gained my fifth Colorado bar code (Boulder County) by taking out Anne of Green Gables, which I know I read once, as an adult, but which I get the feeling I should read again.

However, it's in line. I continued reading Mohawk when I got home, my third Richard Russo in six weeks, rare for me in an adult author. Yesterday in the mail I received The Biographer's Tale from Amazon UK, since I had no intention of waiting until next year when it's published in the U.S. for it. Also Taran Wanderer, my favorite of the Prydain Cycle and the only one not in stock at the Tattered Cover last time I was there (just over two weeks). I bought only The Book of Three then but took all of them off my wishlist because I'm not waiting.

Yesterday at work, Minne asked me if I had begun to read The Archivist yet. "Um, is that this Wednesday?" I asked, knowing it was, remembering a jolt I had this weekend when I unearthed it on my nightstand. Yesterday evening I mowed and weedwhacked and brought a bunch of previous inhabitants' crap to the garage, whence we need to remove it before we want to park there this winter, until darkness brought sushi and "Brazil"-watching and -napping.

Afterward I staggered to my bed and RDC to his study. Blake we put to bed as well, and didn't he protest when he heard RDC's Mac's start-up bong. He sang and whistled under his covers, showing us how sweet he is and what good company and how mistaken we were to put him to bed. (When he's actually mad, his protestations are much less cute and much more resistible.) I read maybe 13 pages before admitting I was asleep. Before I woke in the morning, I dreamed I was on page 950, which is a good trick considering this book is only 324 pages long, but it shows how overly confident I am. Over breakfast I got to page 30, and walking to work this morning I slowed to a stroll, didn't get run over, even once, and got past page 100 and to part II before work. Over a sandwich just now, page 138. I have my bus commute this afternoon, a stolen hour from washing the hallway walls this evening, and tomorrow morning to finish, before discussion at noon.

I like it. It must nod to Possession, what with the intrusion into personal narrative. There are layers of T.S. Eliot's anti-Semitism, the archivist's wife's Judaism, the student's discovery about her ancestry. The only bit I dislike so far is someone's "revolving" a wineglass by its stem in her hand. That's "rotating." Precision of language, please, Jonas! (Goodness, there are Cliffs Notes on The Giver!) The narrator distances himself from the reader, a device the author must use deliberately to show his personality. In that, the book reminds me of Damage with its unnamed narrator (the archivist has a first name, but he's just as personally remote), and of The Remains of the Day, with the named character able to be personally intimate with almost no one.

And then I came home to find my beloved "Don't Break This Rhythm," released as another track on the "Sledgehammer" single in 1985 (the year before I learned the wonder that is Peter Gabriel), available to me hithertofore on a tape I dubbed off SSP ten years ago, and which Amazon took three months to track down but which it eventually did produce. I always thought a whole disk for just one single and some spares was excess and of course "Sledgehammer" is my least favorite song off So, but do I care about consumer excess or packaging or environmental impact or anything? No I do not. What I care about is having one of my favorite Peter Gabriel songs finally in a viable medium, not on a cracked and respooled tape. And I like watching Blake dance to it. He likes Peter Gabriel, probably for the complex percussion, a bird of excellent taste.