Sunday, January 29, 2012
If Nothing Else, This
They're called Pink Perfection for a reason, no?
Owen caught five fishes at the sink hole today and now he's at the circus with his mama and daddy. Big day for that boy. Here's his new thing he says when he doesn't want to do what you have in mind: Hang on!
Hang on. I love it. It's somehow better than No way! which he still says. A lot. Two year old boys have their own agenda and it frequently does not agree with their grandmother's.
Mr. Moon and our friend Tom came down to the Opera House today to help build the stage. We're doing this play downstairs, which means that a stage has to be built and those men got 'er done. Judy and Jack and George helped too. I took my script and walked around in Monticello and studied lines and looked at old houses and stole those camellias from a yard in which sat a house that had "For Sale" and a number to call spray painted on it.
Why not? No one was living there. The thorn vines were taking over the camellias. Now they are a glory on my hall altar in my grandmother's old tea pot. The handle has been broken and glued so I don't trust it for tea any more but the color is too blue and lovely to throw it away and so it holds camellias when they are blooming. I could fill the house with camellias. When I hear the term "Japanese Import" I think of camellias.
Some Spanish moss came home with the camellias. I liked it and left it.
When Lily told Owen that they were going to go fish with Bop, she asked him if he thought Mer would come. He told her that no, Mer would not be coming. She had to make dough.
Am I already stereotyped?
Actually, I had to stay home and study lines. I feel the lace of my swiss-cheese brain trying to retain these lines. The ones I know, I know. The ones I do not know I most certainly do not know. And they are all lines like this:
Hello, hello. Are you all right?
Hello, hello. Where are you?
The great blasts of dialogue lines I can handle. It's those little sparks of inset hellos which are making me insane.
My hands smell of arugula. I picked some for our salad.
Camellias have no odor that I can detect. Unlike roses and other scented flowers, camellias don't need perfume. They are perfection in their appearance. They are sometimes red and sometimes white and sometimes pink and sometimes coral and sometimes striped but they are perfection, no matter what.
It's going to get cold tonight. The moon is a slice of silvered melon. The cats meow for their dinner. The chickens cuddle on the roost. I go out to tend them and look up to the stars on my way there and back. The magnolia leaves are dark and sharp against the light of the house.
The camellias were free and I took them. They are the ones who found their way home and will not fall to the ground, brown and unnoticed.
If nothing else today, I did that. I brought home doomed camellias and I let them be as beautiful as they were meant to be, right here and called them glory and I guess that's something. In my grandmother's blue teapot beside the found turtle shell with Spanish moss they are glory. And every time I pass them I shall call them that in my mind and also, I will remember that house, abandoned, spray painted with a number to call and for sale, the camellias bending to the thorn vines, but glory, nonetheless, just unnoticed, just waiting to be freed.