. Spinning .

More expensive, too, but I think it is money well spent. 

On Monday morning I finally will have someone I trust and respect  in the justice system tell me whether I am an anal retentive ass, or whether three other people are regular ordinary asses.

That’s all I wanted to know!

Whenever there is adamant disagreement, you have to accept the idea that either one of you is wrong, or both are.  Everyone’s sense of what’s fair and just is different.  I believe that if someone is taking a stand opposite mine, then they believe in their heart that they are right, just as I do about my own position.  Unless of course one party is just being evil, which in the cases I am presented with recently, I do not consider at all.  Incompetence, misguidance, sense of fairness, self-serving interests–all these play a part and are understandable and forgiveable.  My self-doubt about my own motivation is why I seek out unbiased and knowledgeable help.

If I turn out to be a real jerkass, I’ll post it here openly.  If it’s the other guys, I won’t say a word.

Strange peach-pink sky morning hangs over a green rain-soaked earth.  This dawn seeps through the house in a warm glow of warning, lighting the rooms with its message.

Only in the real life would I need to consult with an attorney to see if my attorney is being fair in his leanings against my case (and in agreement then with the estate attorney who is representing a single party rather than the estate, which is why I had to hire my own attorney) or just totally insane and if I need to replace him with a third attorney (the first one’s a probate judge and can’t represent me in probate court, but I trust his knowledge and sense of justice).  All I need is someone who understands the law, who can read, and who can be honest and forthright with me enough to say, "Susan, you’re wrong," or "Susan, you’re being a jerk," and if he feels I’m right and only seeking what’s fair, to help me fight for it.

Just to show what I’m up against:  The executrix filed original probate court papers listing a total value of all furniture and furnishings as $1000.  She had someone do some work on the house and supposedly they shut the furnace off which resulted in freezing and broken pipes and water damage in one of the rooms.  She then takes two items, the draperies and an oriental rug (which she’s claimed for herself–she got all the furniture, except one bedroom set and a sewing machine), to have them dried out at a cost of $871.00 at an expense to the estate. Is this fair and honest to her sisters?  Is this reasonable and prudent?  And this is just one of a hundred piddly things, besides the biggies that are being pulled.

I have questioned myself every step of the way on this; am I being greedy, am I being inflexible, am I being unsympathetic…but among friends it is easy to get confirmation or suggestions.  What I need to know is if I am honestly fighting against unethical behavior and if it is within the law as to how I am interpreting written contracts and other legal papers.

Between this holy mess that’s been going on for two years and recent events, I’m about to call it a day.  I’m sick of seeing man’s nature as underhanded and self-serving.  It is not what I used to believe…

The yardman at my neighbor’s house next door is mowing.  He’s singing too and it’s very very loud.  He thinks no one can hear him as he has a monster Skag–a man’s machine–and the car is missing from the neighbor’s driveway.

In my little shop, my barn, I am in my element.  Amid the elements themselves as often it rains in.  Fresh air eases through the clapboard siding to blow the scent of lilacs in.  And blows in as well the sound of song.

I wear the world like a pair of jeans bought off the last chance rack at Marshall’s.  Almost, but not quite right.  An inch or two cut off, a seam taken in a scootch; that’s all that I may do to alter them to fit.

Easier then, to fill the baggy saggy with Hershey Almond Kisses and peanut butter breakfasts glazed with lime curd.  But length and thigh and seat and waist are never perfect, never right at the right times all together. 

They are created by a society, a culture, a tradition, all suiting someone that they know.  It’s then not the jeans that don’t suit well, that chafe or pool or pinch.  It’s not the jeans that don’t fit me; it’s me that does not fit them.

I sit on the kitchen doorstep in a dark garage, sucking on a phoney cigarette.  I’m aware of where I am in the blackness and know I am not a part of it.  I stand, no longer having body contact except through the soles of my slippered feet.  With eyes closed to blacker still I could be anywhere.  I’m very much aware of the boundaries of my self, though I cannot see them.  I am separate from the dark, the setting, the world around me and feel alien to it.  Not belonging.

The funny part is that I can feel this way in daylight too.

I’m still not sure I’m ready to write this, but let me get some of it down.  The topics vary, but they tie in like those bubbles I mentioned that float around; sometimes you can catch two together and make them pop into one, and on and on.

In a long phone conversation with a very dear friend yesterday, the idea of life purpose, letting go and moving onward came up.  This, along with death and possibilities of again, moving on.  She doesn’t believe in anything coming after except new life apart from one’s own.  Children perhaps being the only tie to a life that’s gone.  We spoke of James Joyce, of Boethius and of the Catholic religion.  We spoke of our own relationship through the decades and who we’d known.  We spoke of what we needed to let go of except to live in memory.

She’s helped me through a lot, knows every secret.  She knows my mood swings and the deep blue funks I like to hang in.  This week, I stepped away from a magazine project that was dear to me because it was for writing, writers; something I’d been proud of until it looked like pride may have been unfounded as it is reborn.  It has become to those who shall carry it forward just a pretty piece of propaganda. I could see the writing on the wall and felt the pressure, the walls boxing in even as they expand outward, and I could do nothing to settle them back in their footings.  She said like friends we’ve known, situations and events become a memory and past achievements can’t be carried around forever.  Even they become a heavy load.  So I change "current" to "past" on a useless resume and wonder if this was my last hurrah.

I tend to be a clinger.  While I move on to new things I want to still have a grasp on what is done and over.  I just wasn’t ready this time to move along.  But this is my nature; I will buy a new toothbrush because I see the old one is badly smashed in curling bristles.  The new one will sit there waiting on the bathroom counter for another month or two.

Maybe there’s a comfort zone I need.  Maybe there’s a need for validation.  Going back to school was terrifying until I realized I could excel.  For me there was no moving onward from there to a career–hell, I cannot even get a job. 

Last night too I wondered about all the words I’ve written here; two and a half years, close to three thousand postings.  I’ve been meaning since the fall to make a copy of the weblog for my files–I used to do that automatically before–because the hard drive crashed and who knows what the internet will do to all my archives.  But really, who cares?  Here are only thoughts and conversations.  They would not be down in writing or in any form meant to endure.  I myself don’t even read them, though in looking through them quickly I do see changes in myself.  But should these be hung out in the great cosmic space for someone to bump into while seeking Cheever for a paper?  My words, like me, are transient in this life.  Someone else will take my place without a moment’s reflection.

Boethius reminds me that nothing much here matters much at all.