The latest news is that the buyer has been in the hospital (!) for 2 weeks but still wants to close the deal on the house. The question is, why was his wife also MIA? Why wasn't she taking his calls and why didn't she get back to their real estate agent?
Now I have to wait until their lawyer decides to have the closing. It will undoubtedly be on a work day, so I will lose income. I would not have lost any money if it had been the 29th. (Well, $40 for a credited piano lesson, and that's not nothing, but losing a whole day of Berklee teaching would be bad) I am trying to let go of this and enjoy my last few days of freedom from work. I have done everything I could. The house is cleared and swept. The lawn is overgrown, but the estate can't afford $75 every 2 weeks.
I am still feeling as though my father died only recently. It's because I finally chucked his two foot high pile of bluebooks and other notebooks into the recycling bin, because none of his friends wanted them. I was throwing the only remaining pieces of his mind away. My father's remains are literally a pile of dust. There is no more corporeal Jack Davis. And if there is a spiritual Jack Davis, he has yet to visit me. It's very hard to forgive him for what he has put me through with his estate/house. He actually thought he was making things easier for me. Well, it would have been easier had he put even half of his gambling money in the bank. Or saved what was left of his pension each month and paid off his $27,000 loan instead of sticking Joe and me with (as I repeatedly begged him to do.) It's over and done with, and I should let this go, but almost a year following his death it is still causing me terrible anxiety and depression. If he'd kept up the house and grounds as he should have, we'd have sold the place by now.
And now our hope of selling the house rests with a shoplifter. Not a convicted felon, or as my lawyer put it, "not public enemy #1." But someone incredibly irresponsible. I get a daily headache in the upper right part of my skull. I almost never have headaches, so I can only conclude that it's the stress I'm under. When will it end?
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You want to know when, Ian Curtis wanted to know where:
This is the room, the start of it all,
No portrait so fine, only sheets on the wall,
I've seen the nights, filled with bloodsport and pain,
And the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained.
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Where will it end? Where will it end?
These are your friends from childhood, through youth,
Who goaded you on, demanded more proof,
Withdrawal pain is hard, it can do you right in,
So distorted and thin, distorted and thin.
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Where will it end? Where will it end?
This is the car at the edge of the road,
There's nothing disturbed, all the windows are closed,
I guess you were right, when we talked in the heat,
There's no room for the weak, no room for the weak.
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Where will it end? Where will it end?
This is the room, the start of it all,
Through childhood, through youth, I remember it all,
Oh, I've seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain,
And the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained.
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Where will it end? Where will it end?
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