Luke Johnson “Rembrant’s Light” – Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings

Eilif Amundsen In the Window nd oil on canvas — “In the Window” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Eilif Amundsen

“I am a collection of dismantled almosts.” ~ Anne Sexton, from Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters

Thursday afternoon. Rainy and much cooler, 77 degrees.

So . . . ten days since last real post . . .

Eilif Amundsen House in the Park 1994 oil on canvas — “House in the Park” (1994, oil on canvas)
by Eilif Amundsen

So many reasons why, but better just to move on. First, status report on the bathroom renovation:

Tub has been installed. This after Corey had to take back the first two tubs to Home Depot (missing parts, cracked rim).
Almost all wood work has been done: joists, studs, ledgers; only need to frame the niches.
Toilet has been installed. Had to take back the first one because of a crack. Nothing is ever easy.
Sub floor is down as well as additional piece of wood to bring floor level with tub
Most of the plumbing is in place.
Wiring for tub is done; luckily, we had one breaker that only had a ceiling fan on it, which never made any sense to me.

What’s next?

Installing Hardiebacker board on floor and walls
Laying Ditra (waterproofing membrane)
Installing glass block window
Patching ceiling and painting (primer and paint)
Sanding door and painting
Installing vanity, cabinet, light fixture, ventilation fan
Tiling . . .

I’m sure I’ve forgotten things in both categories, but it’s nice to spell it all out. I’m itching to start the tiling, but can I just take a moment to say hooray for indoor plumbing?

“When you have nothing to say,
the sadness of things
speaks for you.” ~ Ruth Stone, from “Interim”

I’m still in one of those writing funks, the kind in which finding words is such a chore, rather than being a pleasurable experience. It’s hard for me, especially since most of the time words are my boon companion, my constant in a sea of change. Anyway, I decided I’d just do a random thoughts post and see where that takes me. Here goes . . .

I did one of those random tumblr surveys (McPoverty Calculator) about how much more I would be willing to pay for a Big Mac to help fast food workers make more money. I put in the highest amount, which was a whopping $.22. Based on their calculator, workers would make $15.23 per hour, or $31,671.83 per year as a result of this increase.
“Still Life, Window” (2000, oil on canvas)
by Eilif Amundsen
Isn’t bettering someone’s life worth $.22, especially since what you are paying for is so bad for your body?
I don’t understand our society: We let people kill other people based on some kind of weird social indicator that points to our possessions being more valuable than people’s lives (like the law in Texas that allows you to shoot anyone who trespasses on your property that you deem could do you harm).
We are supposed to be a great country, yet one in almost four children live in poverty. Tell me, what is great about that? Dites moi . . .
Did you know that the most recent data show that over 16 million children are living in food insecure households (tenuous access to food)?
Contrary to what the Koch brothers contend, raising the minimum wage would benefit the nation as a whole because more people would be able to live without subsistence. That’s a good thing, right?

“Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved.” ~ Meg Rosoff, from What I Was

Okay, so I went off on a bit of a political rant, but it can’t be helped. Blame it on the Big Mac . . .

Bailey the Puppy has adjusted very well to life here. Only a few accidents here and there, mostly if it rains. I tried taking her out with an umbrella, but she was too afraid of the huge golf umbrella and ran inside, leaving me standing in the wet grass.
“Atelier Mirror” (1985, oil on canvas)
by Eilif Amundsen
Tillie is loving have a puppy to play with. I’m so glad this worked out well.
In between renovations, Corey has been taking some amazing photographs. I’ll post soon.
I feel terrible that I haven’t spent any time with my niece Hannah, but in between renovations and battling bubbly face, it hasn’t worked out. I’m hoping to see her this Saturday.
Brett officially changed his major from physics to English. I’m secretly delighted. Okay, maybe not so secret.
I finally gave in and expanded my LinkedIn profile. It’s not social like Facebook, so I think that I can deal with it.
Have I mentioned how glad I am to have indoor plumbing? I did? Well, it can’t be stated enough.

“Reality is yours, and your spirit is your own.
Stand here, or anywhere, long enough, and you will learn that.
It’s not the stream or the bridge; it’s where I stand
At a precise spot of nowhere and timelessness
Within myself, a door I can go through and be invisible” ~ Douglas Dunn, from “Just Standing There”

Let’s see . . . what else is going on in my mind or otherwise . . .

So I saw my new pain doctor on Monday and got a shot in my knee, so painful, and a series of shots in my right hand and wrist.
“Green Backlight” (1977, unknown media)
by Eilif Amundsen
Apparently, the x-rays I had done last week show arthritis in both of my knees. Lovely . . .
Of course because I just saw my doctor, I am now on day two of this particular migraine.
Speaking of my knees, can’t wait until I get to tile the bathroom floor, he, he, he.
The doctor was not amused when I told him that I was thinking of holding off on the wrist shots because I was getting ready to do a tiling project. His comment? “You should hired someone.” My response? “Are you paying?” (at least that was the response in my head)
I dropped by Lex’s apres le docteur so that I could see Olivia. If I waited for Alexis to come by, the baby might be in preschool . . .
That last comment was snarky, wasn’t it? Well . . . is it still snarky if it’s true?
I’m a little perturbed at her for various reasons, but I’ll get over it.
Olivia has more teeth coming in. I’ll be glad when we’re finished with the renovation, mostly because I’ll be able to have the baby over again . . . well, there’s that, plus the new bathroom and jetted tub and no holes anywhere.

“I am an old boudoir full of withered roses.” ~ Charles Baudelaire, from “Spleen”

I really love this quote↑

I haven’t read much Baudelaire (any?)
Another pitfall of this funk—haven’t been able to read either.

Eilif Amundsen Chair, Table, Window, oil on canvas — “Chair, Table, Window” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Eilif Amundsen

Because of the renovation, I’ve been doing most of the cooking, which reminds me that I hate to cook. I used to love it, but not so much any more.
Last night I made Mongolian Beef, which I’ve been thinking about cooking for a while. I don’t think that I like it any more.
I finally made Chicken Pad Thai for Corey. That was a hit.
Oh, did I mention that our refrigerator is broken? Probably not because I’m in denial, although why I couldn’t tell you. I mean, it’s so just our luck that our refrigerator would stop working now that we’re making real progress in the bathroom. Can’t be 100 per cent operational in this household.
I still contend that one of those crazy bitches I used to work with put a curse on me, but don’t ask me which one . . .
Speaking of which, last night I had a department store dream again. I was in the dog house for something, which is pretty close to the reality that of that period of my life.
My back is killing me. I think I’ll stop for now and go have some puppy time.
I do want to mention, though, that I think this random post helped. I’m been feeling progressively more comfortable with the words with each bullet.

Belated Happy Birthday wishes to my father-in-law John. Hope it was happy!

More later. Peace.

All images are by Norwegian artist Eilif Amundsen (1930-2007).

Music by Sara Bareilles, “Breathe Again”

Rembrandt’s Light

We’re crossing Depression Era bridges
and she is becoming more beautiful,
driving with both hands on the wheel
as we head inland: away from saltwater eddies
where every few months an empty row boat
falls victim to the current, recirculates
against the rocky shore for weeks
before splintering its wooden hull
on the land’s dull and uncompromising teeth.
Rembrandt’s light always came from the left.
He painted and hoped the canvas would keep
his shadows, the eye drawn to where the flesh
was softest and the most tired: just beneath
the eyes where we keep our hurt and our joy,
where we seldom touch for how easily
the thin skin can bruise. Evergreens
invite us to agree on beauty. The fenced-off pier
begs for passengers. She says the light
is bleeding from the clouds. The pavement,
the undersides of leaves: every darkness shining.