February 23, 2016

The house sale saga drags on and on, heading toward its 26th month. When someone says, “I’ll sign this by such-and-such a time” or “I’ll bring the papers by tonight,” I expect that will happen, or if it doesn’t, that I have been subjected to a lie and a betrayal. This is clearly not the case with my counterpart. What does he think? A promise or an agreement to him seems merely part of a wide flux of possibilities, which he may or may not honor, and may alter without notification. Not one single item between us has gone according even to W’s schedule. Long ago I stopped suggesting deadlines, knowing he would ignore them in order to make sure he was in control. This much he admitted himself. But how does missing your own deadlines indicate control? You are above even yourself? Every day the attorneys send me something new to sign or initial, necessitated by the changing wind’s of W’s fortune. Everyone agrees the terms are madly favorable to him, and yet he keeps working every angle. Nothing can turn this into a good memory. My rage is out of proportion to the moment, but not to the history of the exchange.

Some painting, disappointing at first, but good before I left the studio. Retired almost mad with frustration, on all fronts.