Briefly, briefly, briefly

Putting aside any pretensions of profundity for the moment, let me give my vast audience of blogophiles -- that stalwart army of literati that sweeps out of the back lots of Hollywood, marches up the hills of western Colorado, and flies over the sea to the barracks of Stuttgart, Germany -- a down and dirty summary of recent events as seen up here in the Northwest Corner ...

• The globe may be warming, but not so here in Seattle. We reached a balmy 79 yesterday -- mothers pulled small, scared children out of doors and showed them the Sun -- but quickly the thermometer reverted today to a breezy, cloudy disgruntling low 60's.
  
• But the first of the season's cruise ships pulled into port, portending warmer days and summer tourist hordes soon to arrive. (I watched this Alaska-bound pride of the Celebrity Cruise line come lumbering slowly into Elliott Bay from my office window on Monday. My god, it looked like an ungainly white elephant walking across a mud puddle. Why the @#$%&@ can't we have cruise ships that look sleekly nautical and sea-worthy -- rather than hulks that resemble floating wedding cakes or maritime monuments to Wal-Mart?)
  
• You read the blog (but you didn't comment on it!). You've begged for the update (but you begged in silence!). Ok, folks, I hear you! You asked for it! Here it is: Tomorrow the painter finally finishes his labors and leaves me alone -- alone and in peace, in my own house! A mere 32 days after he began, I'll actually be able to walk across a room without stepping into a paint bucket or slipping on a tarp. I'll be able to come home and not have to be pleasant to a trespasser. Friends and family, who have stood steadfastly beside me in spirit (but not in person), whilst I bore up bravely beneath this yoke of oppression are now welcome, nay begged, to visit me this summer. Free food, free drink and -- for reasonably sized groups -- free beds. In return, you need only utter to me those magic words: "Oh man, it looks wonderful! What an improvement!"
  
• I was a moot court judge at the University of Washington law school last night. Participants were all first year students (1L's in law school jargon). Students are getting brighter, more articulate, and more poised every year. The future of the profession will be in good hands. I only hope their idealism will always match their professional skills.
  
• Seattle Art Museum reopened its downtown venue a week ago. It has expanded from the small rather peculiar post-modern building that Philadelphia architect Robert Venturi conned Seattle into building 15 years ago, and now flows into an adjacent portion of a just completed 16-story, sleekly-designed glass tower. At present, the museum occupies only the first four floors of the new addition, with WaMu renting the floors above. Eventually, the museum will grow into occupation of the first 12 stories of the building. It seems kind of a peculiar urban facility, unlike the more horizontally designed museums in most cities. We shall see how it all works out. The signature piece as you enter is a group of automobiles (real ones), suspended from the ceiling, apparently exploding off into all directions.
  
• And speaking of SAM, the museum's sculpture park opened earlier this year. Large outdoor pieces of, well, art (think 25 foot high typewriter erasers), are scattered across a beautiful stretch of brand new parkland, built from scratch on former industrial wasteland, and extending all the way down to the water. Views of Puget Sound and the Olympics are fantastic. SAM has reconstructed a small stretch of primordial beach on the waterfront, bringing in sand and driftwood and boulders -- a place that kids love. The park is built over and around a main city arterial (Elliott Avenue) and the northbound mainline tracks, heavily used by Amtrak and Burlington Northern. Surprisingly, it all works. It all pulls together. It's all wonderful. I love it!

And that's how it is, briefly, in the Northwest Corner. Good night ... and good luck.

The Painter

"L'enfer, c'est les autres."

--Jean Paul Sartre

All of a sudden, I have a new housemate. Let's call him "Mike," since that's his name. He spent all day today in my house. He greets me tonight amidst the ruins of my living room, after I drag myself home from work.

Mike is a painter. No, not that kind of painter. Not still lifes, nudes, expressionism. Mike's a house painter. And for the next month, it appears, he is to be my house painter. (I say "next month," but I shudder as I recall stories of contractors who began projects that were still unfinished a year or so later.)

Mike appears to be very skillful. He is enthusiastic. He offers lots of suggestions, and has an eye for shades and colors. Mike is also disruptive. He has covered all my meager possessions with tarps, leaving me little room to roost -- just my bed, and this chair at my computer. Stripped of bookcases and wall hangings, the rooms look bleak and ugly. Disruption is a necessary part of having your house painted. I know that. I knew that. I was expecting -- although dreading -- it.

But Mike is also a talker. Now, when I get home from work, I don't feel like talking. Or, more accurately, I don't feel like listening. Not at all. But Mike's got a lot to say. After one day's work, my house hides no secrets from Mike. And Mike needs to share his discoveries.

It seems that my house is very overdue for painting. Very overdue. It seems that the oil furnace has, at times past, blown out a fine, greasy layer of soot that still clings to walls and furnishings. It seems that portions of the wall and ceiling plaster are being held in place only by old paint. It seems that -- oh my god, how can I tell you this without blushing -- it seems there are even signs that I have at times shared portions of my house with, as it were, rodents!!

My house has not really been very well cared for, has it?

Mike doesn't come right out and say it, of course. I'm going to be paying his bill someday, after all, he hopes. But, in general, I suspect he feels -- sadly, because he is a professional -- that I haven't really proved very worthy of my house. I'm like a ten-year-old who longs to be out playing baseball, but has been given a fine Stradivarius violin on which he's been forced to practice.

In other words, I feel him thinking, it's really a damn shame.

Psychiatrists call it "projection" -- ascribing your own worst thoughts about yourself to others. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. "April is the cruelist month," according to T. S. Eliot, who actually had very little interest in house painting. This year, April shows every sign of being the longest month, as well.

One day endured, about 29 more to go.