This one will be short and somewhat dreary.
I am working hard this week, trying to comprehend things that make no sense to me. Things like:
Spanish verb phrases that set an action in time. "It had been since Tuesday he had left off smoking," and "unlike the year before, she commenced to stop progressing toward the end.¨ Jeezis.
How the Spanish consumer fraud claims business works, and whether to sit and wait for the Bozos to show up, or start filing charges and ensure they (and our money) never, ever will be seen again.
And when to begin all over with the endless search for a plumber, an electrician, and a mason.
Why our house is still uninhabitable, and why the contractor will not answer his phone. And why simply informing us of what is going on is so impossible.
Why Tim the dog always seems to have something stuck in his throat. And why he makes such awful smells. And how we can go about getting him licensed and microchipped and vaccinated.
How to get rid of ants without poisoning the other critters.
How the American stock market can keep zooming while the dollar keeps sagging.
How to keep Patrick out of the Slough of Despond.
How to keep myself optimistic when it looks like we´ve been robbed of many thousands of Euros, and we may need to find another place to live (with two dogs and five chickens) while we figure out how to recover and regroup.
The Big Dream Finca is looking more like a half-built shotgun shack these days, with little prospect of improvement. I am ashamed to have anyone in here. We are stuck. We are not enjoying this.
We are talking with some nice people from Andalucia who supposedly know how to file consumer complaints and writs and such, but that is little comfort, really. I don´t want to sue anyone. I just want a place to live!
Today we nailed two doors together and closed up the portal on the outside wall that the Bozos left gaping open. At least the world can´t walk right into our house from the highway anymore. (Unless they push on it really hard.) Una had figured out how to escape that way, and was wandering Moratinos in the wee hours.
The wind is up, the mornings are downright nippy. At dusk we took a walk eastward, down the camino. The sky was like a watercolor wash, purple and mauve, pink and blue and black, luminous like a Maxfield Parrish nightscape. The days are so clear and bright you can see the snow and ridges and valleys on the the mountains, 35 km. away to the north. A pilgrim left a little poem taped to a downspout in the Plaza Mayor. It´s in French, so Paddy translated it for the collected neighbors on the corner. The fields, the plains, the roses in the plaza garden, the cool shade on the church porch and the sweet spring water from the fountain: The pilgrim said "thank-you, Moratinos." We´ve got to remember to be grateful, if not hopeful.
It has been since afternoon that I stopped hoping. (a wonderfully Spanish sentence, that!) It feels very empty and plain, vast and severe. It is in NOT hoping or yearning or longing or striving that you find peace, at least according to a few thousands of years´worth of Buddhist wisdom.
I don´t want peace so much as I want my Peaceable Kingdom. I want it to be finished, with bedrooms painted apple green and sky blue and golden yellow. I want it to be relatively easy, because we have paid money to make it so, and that is how it is supposed to work.
And I want it NOW! Waaaaaah!
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