My back yard is alive with cardinals and finches and squirrels and a few minutes ago I heard a woodpecker beating his brains out on a tree in the side yard. Elvis is crowing and so are the roosters next door and everything is telling me to hurry, hurry, get on with it, the day is moving along and why aren't I?
Okay. I can do this. Okay. Get the trash taken. I haven't taken a walk in a week and I'm not taking one today either. Get dressed and get to the Assisted Living. Lily says she'll come with me and we'll bring the boys. Nothing makes my mother as happy as those babies. That is the pure and honest truth. Even last week when she was deep in her paranoid and fearful delusions, I could calm her by showing her a video of Gibson that Mr. Moon had taken.
I just looked up to see an entire flock of red-winged blackbirds eating in the back yard. And then, that quick, they flew up into the trees. Now some of them are discovering the feeder, much to the dismay of the cardinals. Birds of a feather DO indeed flock together.
I am having severe running-away fantasies. I want to sit by the water and simply be.
I want to start a new journal and every day draw one picture and write a few words about it. I can't draw for shit. I don't care. I want to use my office for something besides a running track for Owen. I want to do something, anything, that doesn't have to be done.
Oh wait. I am.
Right here. This.
It is a sort of running-away to write here. Even if what I write about is exactly what is going on as I write it. Last night I spoke about things that can save your life.
Baby. This is it.
Happy Friday, y'all.