Mabel & Galusha

It took a few stops at different corners of the city's Bureau of Development Services complex for me to find the approved plans for Mabel and Galusha, with the permit numbers scrawled across them, and the reams of correction paperwork stapled in a thick wad at the core of the rolls.

The sign above the desk where I found them said: Process Management. The guy manning the counter didn't know what it meant either.

After a visit to the cashier, I leave the building feeling more invested in the project and amazed by how heavy the paper roll feels in my arms. Little did I know the permits would be the easy part compared with the lenders' "process management." My expectations have dropped so low, I'm amazed that one of them even returns my phone calls. The other I paid a surprise visit Friday, to deliver copies of the permits and the contract with the builder. You would think a whiff of guilt might come off the guy for his terrible customer service, but no, he hardly blinked. It's clear I need them more than they need me, which makes me feel not so confident.

Adventure, however, keeps coming, even on a small scale. I tried to dig out some of the jagged, dangerous pipes and other metal fittings out of the back yard of Construction HQ this morning. One cement-anchored thing doesn't seem to have an end to it, so I'm thinking well? Tomb? Tank? Munitions depot?

The footings for the world's biggest swing-set footings seem a minor problem to me now; I might just try and sweet-talk the guy the drives the 'dozer.

Also, I cleaned out the carport so it's all ready to roll, that is, under the wheels of the aforementioned vehicle. It means, too, I won't have to worry long about the wind yanking it away or where all the puddles come from inside.

Lately, I'm looking at trees like crazy, thinking I might start planting some this winter, at least in the back of Construction HQ, which could do with some nice-nice greenscape to balance out the heavy industry. It's possible that piece might go on the market at this time next year and the better it looks, the faster it moves. I still got the lucky FSBO sign!

Guess what? The permits are ready! OK, not really ready. The architect called to say they were done first thing this morning, then e-mailed later that the city would still need a couple more days to, I don't know, ink their stamps?

Anyway, it's not like the bankers are ready to go so, like Sartre, I wallow in nothingness, appreciating the lack of momentum and the chance to do things like move my compost pile. I had been meaning to do it for at least six months, and yesterday it finally happened. I got another smile out of Dennis, who actually had been trying to decompose tinfoil.

Without that big plastic marker in the back yard of Construction HQ, the lots behind loom larger and certainly more accessible. It's like the spot on the wall. You ignore it for eons, take a moment to erase it, and then you get that satisfied feeling when you don't see it there anymore. Why did I wait so long?

Pretty soon I might even get brave enough to clean up the carport, which I have already deleted in my mind.

I called the bankers, and believe it or not they're still hemming and hawing over the appraisal. For instance, a bank honcho thought the land was valued too high, so here they go getting the appraiser to change it. And then they have the nerve to complain the appraiser's not standing by his numbers! I asked the banker what I could tell my builder, and he got all flustered, "Now, hold on there ... ," and I had to say I'd been holding on for the last three months waiting for the loans to close. Note to self: Keep second-choice bank lined up til the bitter end, so I'm not stuck like I am now.

This morning as I walked out to my supershed to retrieve my bike I saw that the grass was crispy with frost. That makes two seasonal changes since I embarked on the development, and if you look back and survey the bare facts of the open space, the ugly carport, and the overgrown grass -- it's astonishing how little, physically, has happened. And today, in my grimmest, coldest humor, I couldn't help but laugh a little at myself. After all, it's been eight months of paperwork, labor, and phone calls, and here I have no permits, and no loans, and a flagging vision.

I'm tortured with the prospect of Galusha, however cool it is, not selling. Even tho I only have to find that one buyer, how do I? My best idea at the moment is a color brochure with nifty graphics and (I hope) insightful text that puts a frisson into any homebuyer's quest for that perfect place to settle. But now, with the election over, I feel so out of step with America, the market, and the way things seem to be headed.

There was a billboard that went up in Seattle when that city hit a major depression in the 1970s. It showed a bare bulb swinging from a wall, with the words: Will the last person in Seattle please turn out the light. I don't even think it was posed as a question.

As I cycle past Portland's vacant storefronts, or down the bus mall past the addicted and the homeless, it seems not even imagination can save us now. It seems like things will get a whole lot worse before they get better.

I wish I didn't feel so divided, whether I am making good use of all my chutzpah (I can say it right now) and energy and vision, or whether I'm a fool not to heed the omens. I know Wayne Gretzky famously said, "One thing I know for sure is that 100 percent of the shots that you don't take don't go in," but in the current times, he sounds so aggressive, courageous, and even hopeful.

The architect just e-mailed to say the permits are only one signature away. It would be ironic if I finally get them at my most pessimistic time.