I’m sane! I’m sane! *happy dance*

At least, compared to these people, I’m sane.

This post sums up what I’ve learnt as well. I don’t look at the credit card slips any more, I just sign ’em :-)

Moloch’s Whore

Restoring an old house is like worshipping a pagan god in that both require sacrifice. Moloch demanded your first born child, old houses require much more.

Old homes require cash. Huge, filthy, fist-loads of cash.

At first you don’t mind so much. You think that a little sacrifice is necessary. You are still excited by the project, you are lulled by dream-visions of what the end product will be. You can see the fresh paint, the shining, refinished floors, and all that beautiful wood work.

Once you start feeding it money, it becomes easier and easier. It becomes part of your routine. Nails, saw blades, paint, and lumber become part of your normal monthly expenses. But, as the months and years drag by you start to feel the pinch. You put off your dry-cleaning as long as you can; you find yourself eating more pinto beans and peanut butter sandwiches; and, if you find a book or CD that you want, you put it on your amazon.com wish list instead of buying it. Then a day comes when you notice that all your sport coats have shiny, thread-bare elbows, your shoes have cracked soles, and that you haven’t had a haircut in months because you thought it a waste of money.

Things that other people consider major problems become interesting challenges for you. Instead of taking your car to the shop when your car’s second-gear quits working, you master the art of driving without it. Five months later when first-gear also quits, you find yourself taking pride in the fact that you can start from a complete stop on an incline in third-gear.

Late at night as you lay in bed, you can hear this relentless sucking sound. It is a persistent whistling of the atmosphere around you vanishing into a void. You are anxious. You know that your savings are gone, your budget is maxed, and it is only a mater of time before everything around you falls to pieces. When you do sleep it is fitful and tense. You dream of a vast weight bearing down on you, pinning you to the ground. You awake tired and thinking, “Should I work on the bathroom ceiling or back hall this weekend?”

The Devil Queen, the old whore upon the hill, beckons. After so much, who are you to deign her?

Edit : so now I’m reading the Devil Queen blog from the beginning. Difficult thing, reading blogs backwards. But oh so worth it. John can write. And he likes Lovecraft, and Monty Python, and, and, and…