- Started out thinking I’d write to the men of the world who want to date women in their 40s. Then I realized I don’t give a shit. If you don’t already know? Why would I want to be your teacher? I’m tired, man.
- Started a craft project with my eight year old and then got distracted by eating my lunch. I am in deep shit. glue and foam of some kind.
- Started with one bowl of mashed potatoes and the last bits of the mushrooms. Got carried away. Two bowls, one with stuffing. Thanksgiving just keeps on giving.
- Started and finished putting up the lights in the yard. Way more didn’t light than I expected but that pile will stay on the porch through the winter, irritating me until one by one i fix them. I most likely will fix them. I might fix them.
- Started reading my book again, The Lost Queen, and realized I’m approaching the end. Glad I overreacted to book boredom and bought the second one when I bought the first. I’m okay with finishing when the next is close at hand.
- Started saying ‘what the heck’ instead of what the fuck with my kids. Its only at a 50% success rate. I think maybe I’ve gone too far to the dark side.
- Started (again) trying to recognize that being nice does not always serve me. People who are trying to manipulate my emotions for no flipping purpose sometimes have me twisted in knots trying to figure out how to still be nice, when, in fact, I should kick them in the face and be done with it.
- Starting to acknowledge the depth to which my resistance goes. Did you ever see the movie ‘Secretary’? It is a tour de force of submissive-dominant relationships (not necessarily a healthy one of those). I see all the power lying in her, in her refusal. And I think there is some of that in me. But the things I am refusing are not meant to be refused. Forward motion, release, striving, competition. exercise. These. Sigh. What the fuck.
- I’m starting to clean random areas, like we all did at the beginning of this. Oh? You think I should sort the napkin drawer? Oh? Lets just clean out the ornaments now? This one? So long. Sentiment be damned. If I am the only carrier of the sentiment, can’t I get a reprieve? Lighten up the damn season. Lighten up the house. Remove some of the weight on the foundation.
- Starting to wonder what I’ll do in December. Will I keep writing? Should I ? I have really liked the feeling of connection I’ve gotten from it. I’m proud I’ve finally done a month. (if i miss tomorrow you can just call me a turkey and move past it.)
- have loved doing it this month. really.
- what are you starting up?
I am in a spot of bother, as Toad says in Wind in the Willows, at some point. I am. I’m having to learn this whole quarantine thing all over again, as a single woman/mom, starting at week 78. all this food that I keep having to make, the weekends that I sit alone in my living room, the lonely lonely lonely. I fucking lost my shit because my kid threw a green bean at me. I almost cried. Laughing would have been way better. But I’m frazzled.
guys, I can’t handle tv anymore. its the most depressing and deeply sad thing ever. and yet, at 8 pm at night, there is nowhere else I can be, nothing I can concentrate on.
and I hate my phone. madly. and it never leaves my side. and I think I have carpal tunnel from it.
I went for a walk this morning, a short one, because I was going to do an online yoga class. its happening right now, i’m not doing it. its too much social pressure because they might see me, and i’m not fit, and they might see me.
yoga teachers are SOOO judgey.
i’m having microwave popcorn for breakfast.
I planted cucumbers this morning, and watered everything, and put the eggs out by the road for unsuspecting shoppers. Its 4 minutes before 9. did I mention that I took a walk? before 6 am? because I need to make this day longer?
I read an excellent book. And herein lies the GreenMan reference. And I’m not sure I have the werewithal to write it up with the sincerity it deserves.
Lanny, by Max Porter. Lanny is the little boy of an artist’s green dream. (I say). Weirdly charming, full of the world of mystery, magic and growth. witness to the beauty of the world. curious. birds eggs, northern lights, bowers, toad stools, charcoal smudges. illuminated.
and its about him. and you have to read to the end, because of what you hold dear, you have to.
as a friend said, notice what you value, and love that you love that. be consoled.
I love it too.
sigh. more hours to fill now.
let’s be frank, shall we?
i am not going to learn a new language during my stayathome pandemica.
i am going to read more books. many of them will contain dwarves or thwarted knights, or possibly detectives. None of them will address racial inequity or the doomed American government.
it has been noticed, that LM, in anxiety/frustration/pandemica exhaustion, will stab frozen ricotta. he does not stab people, which is what i want you to know. but ricotta? that sucka died.
i have purchased a new lawnmower, because i have saved so much money in having all my vacations cancelled. and while i hate that one night at a waterpark hotel is the equivalent of a garden tool that i will use for at least 5 years, and that one night is what ‘all my vacations’ consist of.
i’m probably not going to figure out how to cook Indian food.
my kids are going to watch too many screens, way way too many.
i’m not going to think good thoughts about men. they suck. too many of them have jobs that directly affect my life. i’m talking politicians here. they suck. across the board. it is not time to pretend that the women are just the same. what women?
there are these perfect, golden shard of light moments that keep happening. almost every day. i’m just trying to stay alive to catch them. i can’t collect them, or share them, they just melt away, but they are sustaining me.
one of my 7-year-old’s teachers is reading ‘The Magician’s Nephew’ by C.S.Lewis for the class on youtube. I can’t get over how much I love listening to it with her. Its fulfilling my life’s purpose that at least one of my children will get my love for C.S.Lewis before adulthood.
so, golden shards, stabbing ricotta, lawnmowing in circles.
love you. hang in there.
this is not to be confused with fiddleheads. one is edible, at a particular time of year, and one is not.
fiddlesticks is what you say when you are trying not to swear, and something is frustrating in a fairly benign but relentless sort of way.
(the way i’m feeling about my ears and their continuing saga is not benign, and is aggressive and full of paralyzing fear and despair. fyi)
fiddlesticks pertains to the kid who stayed home sick today, mostly as a result of exhaustion from Daylight Savings Time and an overly exciting weekend with Dad, in which sleep was just a third or fourth thought. or 12th, i don’t know.
-because the world is in something of a tizzy about the new flu, it makes me re-tell stories about my grandmother, the lovely of my life, who won Mother of the Year, for real, sometime in the 60s, and wrote letters to the newspaper about how kids who were sick should not be attending school, for the health of the community. so i’m there, quoting my long dead grandmother in hopes of winning the prize of a healthier community. think it will work?
i’m tired. i’ve been reading, but its been magazines, a few wordless picture books and oooh, a beautiful comic. yes, really. LM is a junkie of the comic book sort so i found myself at a huge sale this weekend. Because i cannot stand in the midst of so much reading material and close my eyes, i asked which were the most visually stunning, because i thought that was a good place to start.
and so. i give you Neil Gaiman’s comic book. The, yes, Neil Gaiman. you aren’t really surprised if you’ve read much of him. I know. What I did was buy two copies of the same story, with different beautiful covers. Because I am going to cut one of them up and use it, as my own art.
because i am a deviant.
Then, i read Return by Aaron Becker. (not from the comic book store, but of a family…since it is a wordless picture book) I’ve tried to capture the feeling of his illustrations in colors of my own, in wildly less beautiful paintings. . . SO GORGEOUS.
sigh. the other beauty of a comic book is Silver Surfer Black Treasury Edition, which is so vibrant it almost knocks you over.
I’m not gonna kid you. My brain is not clicking along at its normal rate, but these are some gorgeous works of art, masquerading as fluff. don’t be a fool and fall for it.
so there. and yes, i will figure out how to share illustrations, or my photos of these things, because man, oh man, my eyes are thirsty.
I’m chugging through the books. Because, really, I love to read… Just finished ‘The Hazel Wood’which is YA Fantasy by Melissa Albert. I dug it. Well-written, creepy, and darkly fairytale-d. And it stands alone, which I appreciate in a curmudgeonly way. I love series, but man, sometimes I just want a completed story, in one package.
Of course, when I go to link it for you, it is listed as ‘book one’. so there is that sigh-inducing moment of my day.
The other cringe of today: my realization that the book that i keep finding, that hovers in each of the rooms I tidy daily, moving (by my hand) from desk, to bedside, to floor, to fireside… is one that I have already read.
Little Bee, by Chris Cleave. Let’s dodge the appropriate questions of a white guy writing about an African woman, ok? It’s a for-real dodge.
The beginning, the first sequence is just brilliant. How much a life can be like a British pound coin.
Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming.
It is brilliant.
Beyond that, I can tell you that I have forgotten much of the detail. I had evidently blocked the title from my memory, but the story has been with me for many years. And I have been permanently scarred by the story line… the violence, the shock, escape, return, the unrelenting feeling of inevitability that I felt when reading. If you are better at handling life than I am, this is a story to read. Think of the power in words that have carried me this many years… its time I let it move out of my house, to stop tidying it from place to place.
And it brings me back to what I liked about The Hazel Wood. Its all about story. Making our own, being trapped in, breaking out of… story. The power of it. How much it can follow you.
As I grapple with my own recurring story, and the need to release/escape from the poison of repetition, I’m feeling my own dark fairytale winding down, and out. and So there, my friends.
A post on books. More will eventually arrive, because I’m done with avoiding things today.
Pip! (still not english, or Mr. Toad, or 84…)