I think about writing. I do. Every day, all the time, I think about writing because I am a writer. It is one of the basic things I know about me, like that I am left-handed and that no one will see my natural hair color without a court order. I’d also need another six hours every day to be all the other things I know about me.
Pete is thinking about bread. We get up in the dark every day now and get on our bicycles before the mornings lose their blueness. It is interesting for him to contemplate breads he will later bake while we dodge drivers oblivious and homicidal. Tomorrow: miniature flatbreads, but we could use a better bike path.
Several of my annual projects are close to completion; I may have mentioned it. Perhaps I didn’t, but thought I was boring you senseless about project x, project y, project z and group efforts 1, 2 and 3. This happens, sometimes. One summer, I thought I was complaining ad nauseum about a family wedding, but it turned out I had zipped my Love That Red lips. Only one person at my job remembered hearing I’d be celebrating crankily, while everyone else scratched their heads. I’ll take pictures. Also: do not scratch that.
My super-duper stepmommy from the Land of Canadia stayed with us since last Tuesday and left last night. Her car was promptly smasheroood by a New Jersey driver. Darla is okay but confused by an insurance company that would not take an accident report because of a missing letter in her Canadian insurance policy. This should not matter because she is not to blame, but here in the wilderness of You Want A Piece Of Me, even the insurance policy numbers start with F.
It’s all a matter of fucking perspective, my dainties.
For years, I’ve been saying I don’t understand why I’m not slim, since I dream I’m exercising almost every night. In fact, it took a long time to realize I was dreaming it. Last night, I caught me at it: I dreamed I was lying on my stomach, reading and touching my feet down just over my head, over and over. It was very satisfying to touch my toes down, then heels to the floor, then to roll down and roll back up.
She looks fit and isn’t me.
All day, I thought about the sensations and pored over pictures on Google Images to find something close to what I was doing and seeing. The image of this woman is the closest I could come, though I have no idea who see is and can’t credit her unless she contacts me; I hope she does. It was lovely to visit with my young, bendy body in the dream. Tonight, I want to take it dancing.
Lettuce. Is too!
Pssst! My little town has a weekend-long, town-wide garage sale every September. Last spring, a friend who teaches second grade in the city about 200 yards across a mossy river, asked folks to clean out their shelves for extra kids’ books. Yesterday, I collected the books on my street; I wish I could have gone a few blocks in any direction, but my creaky back lodged a formal complaint. Anyhoo, books for the kids. Shhhhhh! It’s a secret!
Eucalyptus and Asparagus, obviously on their way out for a couple of cosmos.