May 18th
‘Tis a rainy morning here, more drizzly than real rain. Oona stood outside the window screen and bellowed until I got up to open another window. She is now conked out beside me. I would like another cup of coffee, yet I don’t want to disturb her.
I am very tired for some reason. I slept fitfully and listened to My Cousin Rachel in between times. With this inclement interlude, there will be much argument and evidence for staying where I am. And now I am hemmed in between Oona and Idris who are clearly dedicated to Morpheus this morning. There is something very soothing about the slow rise and fall of a furry cat belly. Idris isn’t really sleeping but working on some philosophical cat question.
May 19th
The jungle is not vanquished, however, I did begin a serious assault on the invasive passion flower vines. The butterflies and bees so enjoy them, but they will take over if given half a chance. I would rather see roses or wisteria or jasmine taking over the back wall. So, yes it is a little bare, but I am making room to plant the lime tree, patiently waiting in a pot, and the pomegranate. Also, there is a volunteer pepper tree that has stalwartly returned every year and I feel it is time to give it a better shot.
I made better space for the gladioli, although there is not much I can do for them this year as they will be flowering shortly. And I do need to take out the kale, Tuscan and Black Russian, as they are crowding out the wisteria on that side. In the front yard, in an inappropriate place there are two healthy tomato volunteers that I would move else where. Given everything I tore down and cut back today, I may well be filling up my neighbor's green cans again. I even uncovered a hibiscus fighting for space between the bougainvillea and passion flower. I need sharper cutters to get the bougainvillea branches.
I finished My Cousin Rachel, which is the Kermit Place Readers' SIP choice for this month. It took me awhile to get into it, but I think it has replaced Rebecca as my duMaurier of choice. I have yet to watch the film, but I did get a damn kick out of the book.
What next? This library closure has been tough on me, as I have said, forcing me to read the books I had already checked out and those in my own library. I have opened and read a few pages of Artemisia which looks to be quite a handful, but interesting. I have read several mid-twentieth century British female writers of later, Margery Sharp (of The Borrowers fame) being one and a recently begun Elizabeth Bowen being another. They are generally soothing, amusing, and fairly fast reads. I am not sure where my head is in terms of more challenging reading but perhaps I will dip back into Leo Damrosch's The Club which I listened to a good half of and then wanted to read more closely. I am also listening to Dark Towers: Deutsche Bank, Donald Trump, and an Epic Tale of Destruction. It is good but it is dense and I likely won't make it all the way through this time.
Although it is noon, I think I will take my lie-down a bit early today. My hands are a bit sore and torn from the gardening. Those bougainvilleas are almost more dangerous than roses. And those boysenberry pricklies are no joke either.
Lovely nap. Much longer than I anticipated. Should I be guilty about my indulgence? It was nice. In my post nap stupor, I attacked the passion fruit vines again and picked some more boysenberries before trudging out to the curb to bring in the trash cans.
Some significant spacing out minutes later.
The breeze comes up at this time of day. There is likely a meteorological reason for this, currently unknown to me. I must say this is sensuously mesmerizing, enough to stop in your tracks to drink it and wish that you were wearing a light skirt to blow around you.
The cats have many secret, shady napping places in the yard, heretofore unknown to me. Oona sleeps in the shade of bougainvillea, very close to the gladioli. Fortunately, they are too tall to be good for sleeping on. Earlier I found Vera Paris in what was formerly the shade of the popcorn cassia. It is bare in that corner now, but, as I have rambled before, the pomegranate will be there soon. And, if I work a bit more in the area adjacent, I can, for this year, put in the zucchini and transplant those tomatoes.
This breeze keeps bringing the first line of Joni Mitchell's Cary to mind, "the wind is in from Africa ..." There were two earworms this morning, Sunny Side of Heaven, from Fleetwood Mac's Bare Trees. I think it will make a good yoga class song. I can't quite tell if it is Danny Kirwan or Bob Welch, but guitar tone is so phat and rich. The song is not mind shattering in any way, but good for morning and evening listening. The other was another Stevie Wonder song from Talking Book, Looking For Another Pure Love. (Listen for Jeff Beck's pinging harmonics in the introduction.)Although I have been listening to Talking Book for almost forty years, I am not sure I had honed in on the exquisite interplay of musicians. And both releases were from 1972. Go figure.
A chapter later.
This druggy, unengaged feeling is nice. Although I am officially unemployed, there is still a pressure to do, do, do, go, go, go. I do feel somehow wrong to be crawling along in a low gear, this unfocussed state is just so nice. The YTT is on break and while there are things to do, some of the pressure is off.
A bird just landed in the Russian black kale. At first, I thought it was a hummingbird, but it was something I did not recognize, which would go for 99% of bird species. It was near enough to Oona to get her attention, but flew away without incident.
Life must be picking up out there as the sounds of the 605 freeway have returned.
The chapter was from Serenade for Nadia. This one of three books I check out of the library in March not yet read. One of the others is about Germans committing suicide after WWII and I just don't know that I am up for that.
THE FABRIC OF LIFE
It is very stretchy.
We know that, even if
many details remain
sketchy. It is complexly
woven. That much too
has pretty well been
proven. We are loath
to continue our lessons,
which consists of slaps
as sharp and dispersed
as bee stings from
a smashed nest,
when any strand snaps—
hurts working far past
the locus of rupture,
attacking threads
far beyond anything
we would have said
connects.
— Kaye Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010
May 19th
The jungle is not vanquished, however, I did begin a serious assault on the invasive passion flower vines. The butterflies and bees so enjoy them, but they will take over if given half a chance. I would rather see roses or wisteria or jasmine taking over the back wall. So, yes it is a little bare, but I am making room to plant the lime tree, patiently waiting in a pot, and the pomegranate. Also, there is a volunteer pepper tree that has stalwartly returned every year and I feel it is time to give it a better shot.
I made better space for the gladioli, although there is not much I can do for them this year as they will be flowering shortly. And I do need to take out the kale, Tuscan and Black Russian, as they are crowding out the wisteria on that side. In the front yard, in an inappropriate place there are two healthy tomato volunteers that I would move else where. Given everything I tore down and cut back today, I may well be filling up my neighbor's green cans again. I even uncovered a hibiscus fighting for space between the bougainvillea and passion flower. I need sharper cutters to get the bougainvillea branches.
I finished My Cousin Rachel, which is the Kermit Place Readers' SIP choice for this month. It took me awhile to get into it, but I think it has replaced Rebecca as my duMaurier of choice. I have yet to watch the film, but I did get a damn kick out of the book.
What next? This library closure has been tough on me, as I have said, forcing me to read the books I had already checked out and those in my own library. I have opened and read a few pages of Artemisia which looks to be quite a handful, but interesting. I have read several mid-twentieth century British female writers of later, Margery Sharp (of The Borrowers fame) being one and a recently begun Elizabeth Bowen being another. They are generally soothing, amusing, and fairly fast reads. I am not sure where my head is in terms of more challenging reading but perhaps I will dip back into Leo Damrosch's The Club which I listened to a good half of and then wanted to read more closely. I am also listening to Dark Towers: Deutsche Bank, Donald Trump, and an Epic Tale of Destruction. It is good but it is dense and I likely won't make it all the way through this time.
Although it is noon, I think I will take my lie-down a bit early today. My hands are a bit sore and torn from the gardening. Those bougainvilleas are almost more dangerous than roses. And those boysenberry pricklies are no joke either.
Lovely nap. Much longer than I anticipated. Should I be guilty about my indulgence? It was nice. In my post nap stupor, I attacked the passion fruit vines again and picked some more boysenberries before trudging out to the curb to bring in the trash cans.
Some significant spacing out minutes later.
The breeze comes up at this time of day. There is likely a meteorological reason for this, currently unknown to me. I must say this is sensuously mesmerizing, enough to stop in your tracks to drink it and wish that you were wearing a light skirt to blow around you.
The cats have many secret, shady napping places in the yard, heretofore unknown to me. Oona sleeps in the shade of bougainvillea, very close to the gladioli. Fortunately, they are too tall to be good for sleeping on. Earlier I found Vera Paris in what was formerly the shade of the popcorn cassia. It is bare in that corner now, but, as I have rambled before, the pomegranate will be there soon. And, if I work a bit more in the area adjacent, I can, for this year, put in the zucchini and transplant those tomatoes.
This breeze keeps bringing the first line of Joni Mitchell's Cary to mind, "the wind is in from Africa ..." There were two earworms this morning, Sunny Side of Heaven, from Fleetwood Mac's Bare Trees. I think it will make a good yoga class song. I can't quite tell if it is Danny Kirwan or Bob Welch, but guitar tone is so phat and rich. The song is not mind shattering in any way, but good for morning and evening listening. The other was another Stevie Wonder song from Talking Book, Looking For Another Pure Love. (Listen for Jeff Beck's pinging harmonics in the introduction.)Although I have been listening to Talking Book for almost forty years, I am not sure I had honed in on the exquisite interplay of musicians. And both releases were from 1972. Go figure.
Never a worry on my mind
All my days before today were happy
You were tellin' me goodbye
Now I'm lookin' for another love
I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life
Oh
And I'm lookin' for another love
I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life
Now the wheel of fate has turned
I'm worried 'bout the new love you've discovered
He is a problem in my life
I have a problem on my mind
Things you cherish most in your life
Can be taken if they're left neglected
Leavin' a problem in your life
'Cause now I'm lookin' for another love
I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life, ooh
And now I'm lookin' for another love
I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life, ooh
I'm lookin' for another love
I'm lookin' for another love
You know, I'm lookin' for another love
A chapter later.
This druggy, unengaged feeling is nice. Although I am officially unemployed, there is still a pressure to do, do, do, go, go, go. I do feel somehow wrong to be crawling along in a low gear, this unfocussed state is just so nice. The YTT is on break and while there are things to do, some of the pressure is off.
A bird just landed in the Russian black kale. At first, I thought it was a hummingbird, but it was something I did not recognize, which would go for 99% of bird species. It was near enough to Oona to get her attention, but flew away without incident.
Life must be picking up out there as the sounds of the 605 freeway have returned.
The chapter was from Serenade for Nadia. This one of three books I check out of the library in March not yet read. One of the others is about Germans committing suicide after WWII and I just don't know that I am up for that.
THE FABRIC OF LIFE
It is very stretchy.
We know that, even if
many details remain
sketchy. It is complexly
woven. That much too
has pretty well been
proven. We are loath
to continue our lessons,
which consists of slaps
as sharp and dispersed
as bee stings from
a smashed nest,
when any strand snaps—
hurts working far past
the locus of rupture,
attacking threads
far beyond anything
we would have said
connects.
— Kaye Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010
I got loaded in the parking lot of Santa Fe High on Boone's farm!
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