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If only we lived in the perfect world

Les Pierres’ optics are still great if glanced at superficially because my aptness for decorative concealment in the end saves the day to some extent, but we’re both increasingly aware of the lack of hours each day to attend to all the chores we have roughly planned, if only we lived in the perfect world I like to write about instead of the much rougher edged reality, with only the occasional snapshot of its beauty beyond, and other alleged excuses for not sticking to the original strategy.

Last year the appalling tragedy of not having our dog with us anymore caused apathy, self-pity and a rapidly growing list of overdue maintenance and yet our current justification for leaving that same list untouched is, similar but different, having a new one to fuss over and be preoccupied with, trying to shape a future where he would just be lying outside quietly, while we work, at the moment a seemingly unattainable utopia.

My personal preference in dealing with exonerations like these is reinforced by an incalculable fluctuating physical condition, so I try to always be as mild and forgiving as possible, profusely praise our every effort but disallow all blame, an attitude not to be confused with laziness or sloppiness because in my head the day has already arrived when all will work itself out, I can see it clearly enough but just can’t administer its timeframe.

This is how I come up with birthday presents like this week’s one for Ivory, the promise that the construction of a long overdue custom bookcase to be fitted in our tiny living room will take place ‘in January’, a wide enough period not to embarrass myself too much, whatever setbacks may occur.

I’m inclined to lamentably forget that promises like these naturally come at the expense of other urgent vocations, like clearing out the ruin before it collapses, repaint the pink shutters, build a greenhouse, construct stacked walls, a new wood storage, plant dividing hedgerows, fix the roof, finish its inside insulation, fit an flue liner in and while I’m high up there anyway, fill the chimney joints that might soon be causing leakage otherwise. And write, write, write about it all. 

Oh well: tiny house, baby steps.

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