Blank canvas

 In the way a bomb site is a blank canvas.

8 tons of concrete fish pond removed from the back yard (charged us extra for overfilling the 5 ton bin) and this thing just keeps going down. I still think all of this was done to hide a body in the 1950s, but at this point, I just want to scrape it flat and build a deck over it. Sorry, hypothetical dead person.

My teenager was accepted to his first choice college in New York. They offered him 32k in scholarships for the first year. That brings the tuition for his first two semesters down to just $30,000.

Get your persuasive arguments ready, kid, because for 30k + (60k x 3 more years), I could build a house on the bomb site and send all three kids to state university.

Here’s the painting I’ve been slowly working on (bottom half is unfinished). 

inert

I turned a painting into a chicken coop. And I assembled most of it myself, until the boys figured out I was up to something and took the drill away from me.

 

 

I think I’ve hit some kind of a wall. Building this thing felt like nothing. Painting feels like nothing. I get home from work and slump sideways on the couch and don’t want to watch a show or read a book or draw anything. I'd go for a walk, but I just don't want to.

 

I'm going to let myself sit here for a while and then see if learning to pour a concrete driveway or install cabinetry feels like anything.

Po

Po died in my arms. She stretched and exhaled and was gone, very peacefully. 

She was a brave cat, the first to explore whenever we moved to a new home. The first to get outside and wedge her butt into a banana tree and need rescuing. Once, she disappeared for three days on Maui and I ran around the jungle calling her name, only to turn and find her following me, confused about what I was looking for. She had a scratchy voice, weird nipples, and she went from purring to scratching the shit out of you in half a second. She peed absolutely everywhere and destroyed all our furniture. One time, when I leaned forward on the couch, she got behind me and peed down my butt crack.

I loved her very much.

Pour one out for Po tonight, friends.

Three in three weeks. My best terrible girl. I am so fucking heartbroken.

Circling the drain

Now Po is trying to die. She’s an old lady, she has every right to, but I’ve been sneaking up and poking her when she gets too still, and she jerks around and cusses at me. Not sorry. We’ve already hit our cap on dead cats for the month, Po. Submit your request after the 1st.

16 years of dedicated service, with special awards for peeing on everything she’s not supposed to and skittering through the house like a bowling ball on legs

Other news:

* Sold two paintings. Probably should have taken better pictures of them first.

* Stepped around a pile of human poop on the sidewalk in Chinatown. A truly ridiculous amount of poop, like someone had piled bratwursts on the sidewalk. Almost impressed that someone took the time in broad daylight to do that.

* Watched the taco truck guys try to paint parking lines on loose gravel. It did not work.

* The rock pile behind the house was finally hauled away in a 5 ton bin!

* The 5 ton bin destroyed the driveway.

* The next gallery show is going to be fish-themed. I am trying to figure out how to paint something fishy when I don't actually like the looks of fish very much. Bought a package of head-on shrimp and painted something that looked like a wet cockroach. Gross. 

Need to think about this.

Downtown

And now old lady Po is circling the drain. At least it’s her natural time, after 16 years of peeing on everything she isn’t supposed to and skittering through the house like a bowling ball on legs. She’s decided she wants to die on the patio, and crumples up like a broken thing with her eyes half open, then whips her head up and gives a scratchy meeeeh when I sneak up and poke her. I’m going to keep giving her her thyroid pills and putting her in front of bowls of fancy feast until she decides which way she’s going here. I love her and it's upsetting to see her coming to the end, but I can just try to do the best for her and help her be comfortable.

 

The gallery show has been extended, and two of my paintings sold. I probably should have taken better pictures of them first. 

While I was sitting at the gallery on Sunday, somebody started screaming hoarsely outside. I walked to the window to watch the homeless people across the street. They’re in worse shape downtown, jerking while they walk or collapsed and rocking to themselves with hoods over their faces. Above them, a scrolling marquee on the building flashed “DO NOT ABANDON US”, and then it blinked and said, “SUPPORT LOCAL THEATER!” We live in a dystopia.

Walking back to the parking garage in the evening, I stepped around a huge pile of shit on the sidewalk. Felt like I’d seen a rare bird. The Chinatown Sidewalk Poop. I've heard about them, but never seen them in person.

What a year this week has been

What happened is this: the taco truck lady got mad about where my car was. I went out to move it and she snapped at me, so I snapped back, so she snapped louder, so I walked away without moving my car. She phoned her son, who phoned the owner, who phoned the landlord on the mainland, who phoned my boss. 

I moved my car. 

The septic tank construction guy who was watching all this and laughing said, “how’s that office job going?” and I said “I’m switching with you today.” 

So I threw a blanket over my online accounts while the neighbors were hot. Pretty sure the coup attempt took some of the heat off of our parking dispute. (And if it didn’t, and they find themselves here, I ACCEPT YOUR SURRENDER. And okay, I’m sorry. I had just seen a body pulled out of a head-on collision, which I might have been in if I had left for work on time, and I was not being friendly and professional, which I will endeavor to be from now on. If it makes you feel better, the septic tank guys accidentally broke the water main and we had no toilets for the rest of the day.)

 

 me hiding all my social media accounts after getting in an argument with a taco truck

 Not a fan of 2021 so far.

Milo

 The neighborhood blew up at midnight. The next morning, only three of the four chicks came out of the coop with their mom. We found the little body in the nesting box, killed by the frightening concussive noise of the fireworks. On New Year’s Day you are supposed to do a little of everything you’d like to continue through the year, and having a burial seemed like a bad precedent to set.

This morning Milo died. 

After delivering his mortal remains for cremation, my aunt started texting that she found a pregnant cat and wanted us to help sort out the situation.

I’m going to bubble wrap all the remaining members of our household.