Instead of the surf this morning I hear my chickens. Let us out of the pen, they say. We have things to do.
The squirrels and their constant taste-testing of the pecans continues. They throw them down on the tin roof of the shed and I swear, it sounds like small bombs going off. I think they enjoy this. When they really get going and throw them down on the leaves, it sounds like the popping of a brush fire. Mr. Moon told me that although they are not so smart the squirrels do run when they see a gun.
I dreamed. I was in a play at the Opera House. Again. There was no script and we kept forgetting our instructions and it was ridiculous and my costume was ever-lost and I held a baby during my rat-ass performance. That baby was the only good thing about that play. Then I dreamed something else and I can't remember but it was anxiety-producing too. I may actually go to the Opera House tonight and audition for a play although the odds of me getting a part are nil. There is only one character that I might even qualify to play and I will not be the most talented woman to read for it. Oh well. It will be good for me to go, to read.
Good for me.
What is good for me?
I don't even know.
I have my head so far up my ass I can't see daylight. It's a wonder I can hear those pecan bombs going off. Just the thought of going to Monticello is enough to make me cringe. Talk to people? Act normal?
THAT will be the performance right there.
I need to go see my mother. She called last week and had seen the doctor who comes to the assisted living place and he thinks that she may be on too much unneeded medication and that may explain some of her dizziness, some of the other symptoms. She loves this new doctor. We had tried to talk her into seeing him when we first heard about him- he must have a good working knowledge in geriatric medicine- but she resisted, insisting that we were trying to take away her choice in the matter. What was wrong her own doctor who knew everything about her?
Well, maybe nothing. But who knows? Maybe a new one could actually figure out a few things.
Maybe he has. I hope so.
So I need to go see her.
I also need to go see Owen. I need to put my hands on his little face, I need to feel his perfect, smooth skin. I need to kiss him and hear him say, "Mer-Mer! Come!" as he leads me from one place to another to show me things.
Here is Ozzie, the chicken with the very long neck. You can't tell from this picture but her neck is almost snake-like, as if her parents had been a chicken and an Anhinga, also known as the snake bird.
I think she is self-conscious about her neck. The new hens are laying. We are rich in eggs again.
This is a rooster-tail lily. I think. I don't know shit. I do know that those are magnolia leaves behind it.
Here's me last night, taking a picture in the hallway. You can see the dead zinnias. I have since thrown them out. You can see me in overalls. You can see the Virgin of Guadalupe, Queen of Mexico, Our Lady, The Holy Mother, etc., etc.
I used to get such comfort from her.
I think I'm over that.
Isn't that sad? How do we lose our totems? Where do we then find our power, comfort, protection?
Well, even if she doesn't represent all those things to me so much any more, she still makes me smile, that one. Her sweet face, her chubby little hands folded in prayer.
Fuck it. Maybe I just need to watch some Wes Anderson movies and get on with life.
I just really don't know.