The Myth of Tantalus

The myth of Sisyphus, that devastatingly concise reduction of the drudgery and futility of ongoing existence, is well known – in part because he had a good modern publicist in Camus, but also because his grim experience is immediately understandable to us all.  We all put in our time behind that boulder.

Less frequently invoked is the tale of Tantalus. For his crimes – and biggies they were – he was punished in Tartarus with unending dissatisfaction, the objects of his desire forever just out of reach. He was immersed up to his neck in water, but when he bent to drink, it drained away; luscious fruit hung on trees above him, but when he stretched for it the winds blew the branches away from him. His suffering was not for nought, however, as it gave us the splendid word, “tantalize,” meaning “to torment with the sight of something desired but out of reach; tease by arousing expectations that are repeatedly disappointed.”

Which brings us to the end game of our project.  They’ve made terrific progress.  So much so that it’s now all in sight.  It seems as though there are just a handful of items left to tick and we can move right in.  Yet . . . yet . . .

Somehow, there’s still a good month to go.  The garage is full of appliances waiting to be installed.  The walls are primed and ready to paint.  The countertops are being cut.  It seems that a concerted week’s worth would get us there.

But no.  This has to happen before that, and things need to dry, and inspectors have to come, and they actually have some other jobs than ours to worry about, too. So, it’s a month.

We really haven’t room to complain, actually.  Jefferson originally said eight months, and that’s just what it’ll be if we’re in by the end of March, as it appears we will be.  As always, it’s the wishing that gets you.  It seemed like we might be in earlier, therefore it’s a loss when we aren’t.  Self-inflicted, of course.  As John Cleese said in the little remembered “Clockwise,” (1986) in which he portrayed an English school headmaster, thwarted at every turn as he simply tries to travel to receive a longed-for award: “It’s not the despair.  I can take the despair.  It’s the hope I can’t stand.” 

If Jefferson had said 10 months, we’d think ourselves lucky right now and be absolutely delighted with the progress.  Since he said eight we hoped for seven, and it’s the anxiety of the race, instead.

But we’re close.  Tantalizingly.