I did what I said I'd do today and wandered and roamed and knelt in the dirt and the fucking ants bit me through my overalls but that's their job. I cannot hate them although that does not stop me from cursing them.
So much in life is like that, don't you think?
I didn't get much tidying done in the house, although the garden is a tiny bit less messy, the bug-laced collards gone to the goats, the bonsai, slug-snotted cabbage heads too. I did a little weeding, I picked a nice bowlful of cherry tomatoes, some fine regular ones, a squash (it is time to pull those up, they are wilted and sad and I can tell they are weary and would love to be put out of their misery) and a good number of banana peppers. And one lovely fat onion which was bent over and ready to be plucked for sure.
I am so behind everyone with my garden this year. People are talking about what a great year for green beans it was and mine have just truly begun to bloom. And my cucumbers...well. The less said about them, the better.
I had forgotten but then remembered that there was a Stage Company board meeting tonight at six so I took a shower and put on a bra and some other clothes and drove to Monticello to attend. I enjoy these meetings but feel guilty because I never really DO anything for the Stage Company. I merely show up to the meetings (and I am extremely punctual!) and sometimes I crack jokes and sometimes I make a motion and sometimes I second a motion and I often bring up shit that has nothing to do with the Stage Company and get us off track and I usually say something incredibly and blatantly blasphemous and I don't know why I do that. I just can't seem to help it. I don't even know if I want to act in plays anymore. I had a lovely run doing that but it gets harder all the time, memorizing lines and showing up for rehearsals which isn't so bad and is really the part I love but then there are the performances with all the necessary costumage and make-up and hair and the nerves and the fear that I'll ruin the entire production by forgetting pages and pages of dialogue and for a woman who finds it stressful to figure out what to make for dinner, it's a lot.
But my dear friend Judy wants to direct Arsenic And Old Lace and she wants me to read for it and so I've taken a script to read. I may be the only person on the planet who has never seen this play.
Well. We shall see.
Mr. Moon is out of town and I still have a load of laundry to fold and all of it to put away and the center island in the kitchen is one big clusterfuck of mail and books, both audio and real-with-pages and the tomatoes and peppers I picked and the eggs I gathered and my purse and the script of Arsenic And Old Lace and another script I'm supposed to read and the treasurer's report and magazines and index cards and Mr. Moon's lunch box and crap, crap, crap. I swear that before I go to bed, I'm going to DO SOMETHING with all of that shit and create order there. Somehow. Some way. And I suppose I need to make something to eat although it would not hurt me one bit to eat nothing at all, maybe a cherry tomato and call it a day.
The night critters are calling so fiercely that it's like a velvet curtain of sound pulling in the darkness. I have got to go to the eye doctor, I can barely focus at night and writing this, I find myself closing one eye and I do that every night and I do it while watching TV and I do it while reading and this can't be good. This has been going on for years and is one more reminder that aging is a fucking bitch, a biting, stinging red ant of a fucking bitch and like with the real ants, I understand, but still, I curse it. I keep thinking about David's mother, twenty-five years older than me with her long white hair, her strength, her sparkly shoes and her pearl-laden hair clips. I think of how she conducted that orchestra and chorus, her back straight as a young oak's trunk. I think about her saying, "I had cancer and it took me awhile to get over that and now I need to get healthy," and I feel like a baby, a whining baby.
It's okay. I can feel however I want and need to feel.
It's dark as ink now. It is well and truly night. I will sleep alone tonight. Tomorrow I will see my grandsons and my children and my husband will come home.
I wonder why I need to sit and write this. I wonder why I need to blaspheme. I do not think that God's eye is on the sparrow nor do I think His eye is on me. Which is sort of a relief.