Chapter XVIII of the never-ending tome called "Projects for the Columbia County Farm" was in full swing today, as I sanded the floor in what will someday be the library. Any of you who have operated a rented floor sander knows what kind of dreary work this is, especially in a place like ours boards laid in 1867 don't respond so well to being fucked with. The floor is puddled with sixteen coats of paint and polyurethane, most of the planks are bowed in the middle, and several of them are hammered into the floor with some sort of ancient nails that rip the sandpaper all to hell if you don't bash them within an inch of their lives. Three abortive attempts into the ordeal, I put on the "super grit" sandpaper - you know, the kind the hardware sales clerk only lets you have with a prescription – and had to sand crossways against the grain. Yes, I've transgressed every rule that Master Carpenters hold dear, but so far it's: Ian: 1, Ancient Floor: 0.
None of this was easy, since I am pretty much full-fledged sick ironic, since I spent last night on here yammering about the placebo effect. It seems like I should be able to will myself better, or give myself a sugar pill or meditate or something, but I largely suspect that it's my stupid-ass deviated septum getting infected or something. This is the kind of thing, left unchecked, that used to kill medieval astronomers and such, so it looks like I've got to find a General Practitioner before my face falls off.
In other farm news, the tomatoes I planted look like they're thriving, and the newly-thinned pumpkin vines are beginning to rock. Ever since my days worshipping Linus, I've wanted a pumpkin patch, and to grow my own jack-o-lantern for Halloween (my fave holiday). Fortunately, the internet has several pumpkin dork sites (check out this message board or the Pumpkin Nook with it's shameless pumpkinization of history!) so I know precisely how to make my pumpkins have sex with themselves (more on that when I actually do it).
I took a break today mid-sanding and just sat in front of my garden while the sun prepared to set behind the Catskills. Probably twenty minutes I sat there, trying to feel better. Seeing plants you've grown with your own hands, from tiny seeds to a flowering vine, makes you believe that at least one part of your life is purely honest.
Posted by at July 13, 2002 8:13 PM