Spo-Reflections

Today is Henrik Ibsen’s birthday so I ought to post something.  After all, a quotation of his has headed my blog for twenty years:

‘To live is to battle with trolls in the vaults of heart and brain. To write; this is to sit in judgment over one’s Self.’

Mr. Ibsen’s plays aren’t produced too often anymore, more’s the pity. Perhaps people find his plays too pessimistic, which they are. However they were quite revolutionary and scandalous in their time. He portrayed women who walk out of their marriages as they’ve had it and women who kill themselves rather than be the plaything of men. Mr. Ibsen wrote a play Peer Gynt about a proper b-strd of a fellow who does no good and the uncut play lasts for four to five hours (oh the pain). Nowadays in Norway Peer Gynt is more a trickster type, like Captain Sparrow, and when the play is produced it is cut to a modest two hours. Henrik must be rolling in his grave.  He persuaded Edvard Grieg to write music for the play. Mr. Grieg must be rolling in his grave as he is best known for this, such as “Morning” and “In the hall of the Mountain King”, the latter he detested.* Both artists’ legacies illustrate we are often remembered best by things we didn’t intend to.**

Someday I would like to go to Norway not only to see the sights but see what they have done with Mr. Ibsen.  I hear tell his statue is everywhere (the tourists expect them) and you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a troll knickknack or carving.  I suspect trolls weren’t that important in the Norwegian psyche but they got a big bolster thanks to Grieg’s little tune. 

When my grandparents came back from a trip to Norway they gave Brother #2 and I carved trolls hanging from strings; I would give anything to have them back.  I suspect ‘troll on a string’ is for sale somewhere online, but best to just visit the country and get a new one. Just don’t be a Peer Gynt about it. 

*For the ‘Hall of the Mountain King’ I have written something that so reeks of cow pats, exaggerated Norwegian-ness and trollish self-sufficiency that I can’t bear to hear it, though I hope that the irony will make itself felt.’  

**My first cousin once-removed still remembers to this day me letting out a string of expletives while on a family hiking trek, thirty years ago if a day. Oh the embarrassment. 

Note: I wrote this when I was down in the dumps on a Sunday afternoon. One of the benefits of writing is getting things out of the mind and onto paper for release and reflection. I was going to keep it private but I thought to post it anyway. Spo

Sunday evening can be a time of melancholia for me . I feel pensive to the point all I want to do is retire early (7PM if possible) but I don’t, as this means the next conscious moment is Monday morning. This phenomena used to be about going back to school or work after a carefree weekend, but this is not the case now. It happens because another week has gone by without fanfare or wonder. Last weekend I got a lot done, the usual and necessary chores; by Sunday evening the shirts are ironed and the laundry is done – for now. The cars are washed and walks were conducted. I got through all the podcasts. All is done and ready for another week. Sometimes I get a quiet satisfaction from my industry but not on Sunday evening. There is a sense of life proceeding as an adventure-less tale. Mind! Tasks need to be done (well not the podcasts I suppose). I show up at work on Monday morning and The Medical Assistant always asks what I did on the weekend. I answer ‘laundry’ and we both chuckle and the work week commences, no different really than the last one.

I often wonder how on earth people manage to travel or go to socials or attractions in town. Don’t they have laundry to do and dirty cars to clean? Perhaps they don’t viz. someone stays at home to do things while the other one works, or the lack of work gives them ample time for the mundane with excursions. My father worked long hours Monday through Friday but his weekends were times of leisure – made possible of course by my mother who did the house chores and errands in the week while he worked (and Carrie came to clean every Tuesday).

Most of us will go through life without spectacle. My Midwestern ancestors not only lived mundane lives they saw it as what life is about. I don’t have tales of eccentric uncles or defiant aunts who ran off to join the circus as it were, worse luck.

E.T.A. Hoffman wrote a story ‘Kater Murr’, a tale written by a cat of that name, that reflects on his life. Its most quoted sentence is:

‘Can anything be cozier than having a nice, secure place in the world?’

Once upon a time I agreed with this philosophy. Give me a comfortable life and I will purr with content. Now I reject Kater Murr. Kater Murr wants nothing but certainty; it is the enemy of all true art and science and adventure. I wonder if it is still possible; I hope so. I can’t envision what it would be like but I yearn for it and this longing is most felt on Sunday nights. By Monday morning it gets buried by work, only to come out again Sunday night. What to do? What is the first step, after recognizing it? I don’t know.

Although it doesn’t rain much Arizona has a considerable amount of dust so cars get caked with a fine brown soot often enough to write rude words in it. That ain’t good. In response Someone got us memberships to the local carwash for unlimited washes per month. He hoped this ways we would go often and get our money’s worth, so every weekend usually after breakfast we go. At home is The Red Car and The White Car, officially neither owned by either but really The Red Car is mine and The White Car is his. This is important to the story as the frequency (and quality) of a car wash differs who is driving.

When I go to the car wash I get mild PTSD flashbacks remembering the many bungles in my teens to enter one. I could never get the front driver’s side tire to go neatly into the track. I still cringe thinking of the personnel yelling at me in my efforts. “Stupid teen” I hear them say. The youngsters managing the carwash now do not yell but they sometimes roll their eyes no doubt thinking “stupid old man’. Oh the pain. Someone never has problems entering the car wash, regardless of which car he is driving.

The local car wash is run and managed by folks who look no older than ten. The poor devils (both boys and girls) are obliged to wear clip-on bow-ties with white shirts, even in the heat of summer. I suppose the spray of the car wash helps. If I am driving I pause a little at the tollbooth to chat a bit with these kids, much to the chagrin of Someone who believes in getting through as soon as possible. If there is car ahead of us I want to wait a bit to put some distance between his backside and my front, lest there are ructions in the car wash conveyor belt. Someone sees no value of this, but once the car ahead of me failed to leave the exit and there was a pile up.

The actual carwash isn’t long but has several large swirling sponge-like contraptions. The shooting soap is in gay colors of yellow, blue, red, and purple. Sometimes it is merely white; it’s a disappointment.

They used to give out slightly moist towelletes upon checking in useful to wipe down the interior while the car slowly progresses through the tunnel of wash. But those were happier times I suppose and this cuts into the profits.

After the washing is accomplished there is an area for drying and vacuuming. This is where differences of opinion arise and sometimes there is savagery which (if all goes well) would lead to murders and suicide but for the fact the car was just cleaned.

I bring white hand towels to dry the door interiors and wipe down the windshield wipers. Rationalists in the house point out Duck Duck Go provides slightly damp towels for such matters but these are dark green. There is a slight satisfaction to see black grime on white washcloths, which I point out to Someone while doing my best Captain Bly/Mr. Christian routine. I am particular about the insides of the doors which are often grimy and wet and need a good wipe down – like my men.

Someone’s area of expertise is vacuuming; he does a much better job than I at blowing dirt out and such. I do an OK-enough job what he calls A Poor One; after I do my side he comes around to point out the bits I didn’t get. By the way I handle the public vacuum hose by first wrapping it with one of the provide dark green cloths, a trick I learned during COVID days and have kept going. On occasion the suction will make a grab at the towel’s corner and wow! there it goes! Hey laughing boy! No more towel! Oh the embarrassment.

Somehow we manage to get in and out of the place without ructions and come home in a clean car – temporarily. On the way home I use the white towels now damp to wipe down the inside area or at least is in arm’s reach sitting in the passenger seat. There is a satisfaction having a clean car; it seems to drive better in some way for being clean.

I’ve been informed by thems who know this sort of thing the waning moon is in Capricorn and this means for Cancer types (hey, that’s me!) things are up to no good that’s certain and we should retreat crablike back into the ocean and stay there, perhaps until Jupiter (or one of that crowd) moves into Capricorn and fixes things. Normally I don’t care tuppence what says my horoscope, but this advice is fine by me. It is a good time to crawl into one’s shell. The Felon is doing all sorts of shenanigans causing my savings to plummet and it takes a small fortune to fill the gas tank.* We stopped doing ‘financial Fridays’ when we count our pennies as it is too painful to look at nowadays.  

Work has been strained as of late what with trying to get all the charts up to date, all the I-s dotted and all T-s crossed – all this on top of the usual clinical needs. Most of my woes at work are tech problems, for which there is vague but uninvolved tech-support who is off-site – orbiting one of the moons of Jupiter probably. The Medical Assistant gave notice and goodness knows what will happen when she leaves. I go home rawther tired more often than not and wish to go to bed by seven. 

Happily there is nothing scheduled this weekend and I don’t lots to catch up with. Even if I wanted to go out the pollen level is thick as fog and makes breathing a miserable past time. A neighborhood lady answered my Neighborhood post for the free Santa Claus sack of fabric scraps.  It is a good knowing someone will make good use of them. She represents a quilting club that makes quilts for women in shelters. I hope they like gaudy brightly colored patterns. 

I wish the moon would hurry up and wane into Pisces or Sagittarius I forget which direction it goes nowadays. The March equinox occurs around 745 am local time 20 March; I forget what that means in astrology other than we will have more sunshine than not, which isn’t groovy in my book.

I think it may be time to change signs, Leo perhaps. It’s a nice sign; please don’t feed it buns and things.

*I remember a time there was a spike in gas prices and stickers of President Biden appeared on the tanks, saying “I did this”. Last time I looked there is no equivalent Trump stickers saying the same. I recently heard he is said higher gas prices are good that we (meaning him I suppose) will make a lot of money. I