July 10, 2017 (Monday)

by Yule Heibel on July 9, 2018

I sit down this morning without any preconceived idea what to write about, so unlike many other mornings when something that happened or I’ve read about or seen already arises in my mind, demanding attention. The morning is cool – I almost want to say “sepulchral,” but that’s only because I already feel entombed. Or at least on my way: this virus persists. My cough is somewhat less frequent, perhaps a bit milder overall, but it’s still there, lodged deep in my chest, in my lungs. I wonder if I’m not suffering from “walking pneumonia” by now – my lungs feel like a very old and clogged motor that’s having trouble turning over.

I’ve been more or less awake since first light, well before dawn, as both the traffic noise, but also the insistent sparrows started up their morning screeching. At some ridiculously early hour I gave up resting and got up, but I still managed to fritz away enough time that now the sun has fully risen behind the trash trees I failed to control, bathing everything in strong morning light. It’s supposed to get very warm today, but as with some of the previous days, the nights (uncharacteristically!) cooled off a lot. Hence, the sepulchral aspect: a coolness which feels as welcome as it is unusual for a New England summer. A somewhat cruel irony that A.’s visit should coincide with some of the most remarkably fine summer weather I’ve ever experienced on the East Coast (it’s practically Maine-level lovely) while W. had the week off, and yet both of us are, have been, sick as hell.

Yesterday R. came by with his contractor friend V. to look over the work that needs doing here. V. seems nice, I hope he’s reliable. If his quote is good, he can start next week, or immediately, as far as I’m concerned. I just want someone to repair all the things that are spinning out of control on the house. Afterwards, in the afternoon, we drove to Essex and walked the main strip, which has turned into a sort of highway. It was actually quite unpleasant, especially since groups of motorcyclists, all on Harley-Davidson machines, mixed in with the cars. The resulting noise level was deafening. We shouted to carry on conversation. Without having agreed to it beforehand, our (A.’s and my) goal was A.-W. Antiques. But it’s no longer called that. T.L. and his dog still hold court there, but clearly there had been a regime change. L. seemed flighty and piqued, a kind of gay vulnerability. Later, at Salt Rum Bar in Ipswich, we googled, and discovered that the fabulous mansion once shared by (married couple) W. and L. is now occupied by W. and T.M., whose new enterprise is Dom Paragon (which they operate as a virtual shop out of their mansion – and presumably via exclusive antiques shows). They also rent out and organize events at the house – weddings and such. Just an interesting bit of drama and gossip, but I wonder what happened?

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