Never, Disambiguated

I am cutting it close!

If ever you've wondered how Fred and I are able to afford such a luxurious lifestyle, here's our secret:  We live on 60% of my salary (frozen at its lofty 2001 level with nary an adjustment for pesky details like "costs of living in A Manor") and have expenses that exceed that amount by 127% (excluding some medical debt that would be economically lethal to consider as actual money owed).

We've saved beaucoup bucks thanks to our dedicated squatting here at Marlinspike Hall, an endeavor that was envisioned as a convenient feet-propped-on-a-plush-leather-ottoman kind of thing but that turned out, as my dedicated readership knows, to be more of a trompe l'oeil affair, in which lazy leisure is the trick.

To push the edge of the tattered brown envelope, our anxious virtuosity is less Magritte's crisp "lucid dreaming," being infinitely more in keeping with his "alleged" forgeries.

I don't mean the kind of cleverness involved in faking one's own work ("to raise cash"), the assumptive motivation behind the existence of two Flavour of Tears:

Courtesy of Online Tate

No, I am referring to the outright, intentional theft of someone else's work, be the thievery clever or not.  Specifically, I cite Marcel Mariën's claims to have sold numerous forged Picasso, Klee, Leger, De Chirico, and Renoir on Magritte's behalf in the 1940s -- none of which were "pipes," none of which were parody or illustrations of subversion.

Yeah.  Well.  My blurry vision informs me that Mariën’s pretension was culled from "La Reproduction Interdite: René Magritte and Forgery" by Patricia Allmer, a piece published in Papers of Surrealism, Issue 5 Spring 2007.  She is referencing, of course, Marcel Mariën’s autobiography, Le Radeau de la mémoire.


But we're not worms in the apple, Fred nor I, nor our entourage of Tintinistes, felines, and local-yokels:
We live in, and among, the Haddock family's ancestral home and holdings in Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) but it is definitely luxury beyond what we cannot afford, so we tend and maintain it, following The Captain's orders and philosophies.


La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore stays here under the same sort of understanding, though her opera career cuts back on the amount of damage she can inflict on Manor property.  She's proving, however, to be a reckoning force in the development of the Haddock's Detox and Rehab facilities, as well as their Best and Most Frequent Flyer.


It would be nice if we could get Bianca to understand the concept of "paying it forward," but we may forever be working on that slippery notion of "paying it back."  In the Fullness of That Which is The Castafiore, she has mal-adapted a behavior that covers both of these ideas, a cheerful, warbled version borrowed from Chapter Two of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer:

"Hi- yi ! You're up a stump, ain't you!"


No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:


"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"


Tom wheeled suddenly and said:


"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."


"Say -- I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther work -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"


Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:


"What do you call work?"


"Why, ain't that work?"


Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:


"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer."


"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"


The brush continued to move.


"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"


That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect -- added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect again -- Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:


"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."


Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:


"No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence -- right here on the street, you know -- but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."


"No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just try. Only just a little -- I'd let you , if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly -- well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it -- "


"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say -- I'll give you the core of my apple."


"Well, here -- No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard -- "


"I'll give you all of it!"


Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with -- and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar -- but no dog -- the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.


He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while -- plenty of company -- and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Yes, so some days Fred and I marvel along with a snickering Domestic Manor Staff as various visiting Baritones and Tenors, interspersed with the odd Contraltos, have taken up feather dusters or been seen hauling firewood or mucking out horse stalls -- each and every one with such an air of satisfaction that we've ceased to query The Castafiore on her methods.

Anyway, as I said at the outset, I am cutting it close.

The various formulas and barters that complicate life as a Working Squatter sometimes feel like more of a cognitive confusion than a rich system of interconnectivity.  I get turned around, disoriented.  And scared.  I mean, there's a good number of good people who depend on me and my attempts to preserve and extend the aforementioned 60% of a frozen salary.

Even though Captain Haddock has provided netting in the event of my total fiscal collapse, we have needs that escape the understanding of Tintinistes -- like insurance coverage, for instance.

I will explain -- AGAIN -- how it is that Fred and I are not immune to disease like the vast majority of Tête-de-Hergéens.  Simply put, because we entered the country in an unusual way -- via The Captain's miniature submarine, The Schvitz, with its patented Corkscrew Technology -- we were not subjected to the curative BioHasard Filter normally employed on immigrants.  Hence, we've needed to maintain our health insurance, even when doing so ate up 97+% of that famous aforementioned 60% of a frozen 2001 salary!

Since 2001, this private disability insurance has kept us afloat, although the occasional wave of tepid moat water does wash up my quivering nose.  And, with this private disability insurance, I purchase private health insurance, as I, the Resident Socialist, am not eligible for state-sponsored disability coverage.  That's right... I am totally and permanently disabled, but because the majority of my working life was spent in universities, few of which pay into the Social Security systems, I lack sufficient "work credits" to receive anything resembling state-administered disability income.

I know what you are thinking, Friend.  Something like:  "Well, then, they had to have paied into a pension plan on your behalf, so stop whining, Profderien!  Stop this mad shell game, Retired Educator!  'Fess up and show us the money!  I mean, didn't I read that she drives a 2008 Honda CR-V?  Equipped with a motorized wheelchair lift, too!"


Oh, chill.  Of course I tried to recoup the millions stashed in various pension plans under my illustrious name, thinking to create a dandy little Health Savings Account ("tax-advantaged"!)  because that would solve everything! 


{attempts::to::chuckle, failed}

Here's the punchline to that joke:  In order to get one's pension money, one must be vested, and usually one must be vested to the tune of five - seven years.

Guess who was enjoying a life of living-here::living-there, studying with this Famous Person on the West Coast, struggling under these Over-Inflated Egos of the Eastern Seaboard?  The idea that I needed to stick with any one university long enough to be able to access my pension just did not register in my conscious mind.  


"Employers use this strategy to promote loyalty.  Employees do not want to leave free money on the table, so they may not want to leave the employer." {guffaw}


So, yes, there are two large, well-known universities that owe a small measure of their financial health to having bilked me of my benefits.

You can see that the aforementioned 60% of a frozen 2001 salary assumes more and more importance in our world.

Cutting it close: I believe I've mentioned that tendency of mine before.  Okay, so perhaps I tend to project the blame for all procrastination onto Sweet Fred, since he suffers from ADHD, and I, well... I do not.

Except when it comes to filling out the paperwork from my private disability insurer in order to update them about my progress as a completely useless, worn-out, debilitated, and totally gimpified person.

They cram this stuff down my throat every THREE years or so!  I mean, Jeez, give a person a chance to breathe, would 'ya?

The paperwork to be completed arrived six weeks ago.  It is due tomorrow.  Technically, I can turn it in whenever, but they did make the terroristic threat that failure to get it in by tomorrow might result in an interruption of my benefits.  Harrumph.

The most important part has been done, and was done within a week of the request:  the Attending Physicians Disability Status Update.  I was thinking that my MDVIP Go-To-Guy Doctor would need time for reflection and careful consultation of his notes, so Fred and I zipped it out to him right away.

He filled it out in front of me.  At one point, he giggled.  As I began to explain where he could fax the completed forms, he handed them back to me, in triplicate, notarized -- all done.

The remaining sections contain such thrilling morsels as medication lists, hospital admission dates, specialists' names and addresses, and my sworn testimony that I am not on anyone's payroll.

I've kept Go-To-Guy's portion carefully tucked away in a crisp, white envelope.  I was hoping to stave off curiosity and just toss it into the final mix when my sections were finished.  I mean, what could he say that would be news to me, anyway, y' know?

So here I am, febrile again, dripping all over the laptop, headache raging, bones screaming, facing a deadline that can no longer be avoided.  And, of course, instead of dedicating myself to the 15 minutes worth of writing required to finish this task, the only thing worth doing, suddenly, is perusing the Physician's Status Update.

The first thing I notice is that he's knocked off a good 20 pounds on my weight.  What a nice man!  The second thing that jumps off the page is that, next to my diagnosis, he has written "Severe," with an exclamation mark.  Underlined.

I figure that his giggling episodes must have been triggered by the Functional Capacity, because this Fool of a Medico went crazy with notations and equivocations.  I have a 1-33% ability to push/pull with my dominant hand but 0% ("Never") in the other, for instance.

I have 0% ("None") ability to CLIMB but a confusing 1-33% ability to TWIST/BEND/STOOP.  Even more disconcerting, though, is that my twisting/bending/stooping is matched by my 1-33% ability to OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY.  What the heck?

The very next line asks about current restrictions, which he begins to answer by writing: "Do not operate heavy machinery..."!

Okay, so I was finally laughing along.

Then, as I was checking that he spelled his own name correctly, my eyes fell on the last nugget of information they needed.

Q:  "When do you expect improvement in the patient's functional capacity?"
A:  "Never."

Except that it looked more like "Neve." The final R is there, but it looks as if his pen might have fallen out of his hand, or slipped on the page, somehow.

If they cut off my benefits or some other nasty deed, it's gonna be because of his bad penmanship, not because I didn't rush to make sure they knew I was such a diamond in the rough.

Wikipedia has the following disambiguation information for the word neve:

• Neve (band), American pop rock group, 1997-2001
• Neve (titular see), former Roman Catholic diocese in Arabia
• Neve, Hebrew word for oasis, first word in the name of several settlements in Israel
• Névé, young, granular type of snow which has been partially melted, refrozen and compacted