Although they do not appear to be so in that picture, our pancakes this morning were flat-out purple from the blueberry juice. Purple pancakes. Purple as a black eye in that black skillet. And it's Sunday.
No. I am not going to relate my dream. I'd just as soon never think about that one again.
I'm trying to read this book.
I think I've read all of her other ones except the book of essays. Oh wait, maybe not. But I've read three at least and they're never easy but I want, want, desire, to read and love them, probably because Zadie Smith looks like this:
Which is to say like a goddess and those lips but mostly those eyes! Jesus, I mean...you know?
But she's not making it easy in NW. Not for me, anyway. I don't know. I guess I'm lazy. I don't want to have to figure out who is saying what, when, where. But then you come across a line that's knock-you-off-your-feet and you blunder on through.
I'm rambling. I have anxiety today, that physical knot in the stomach. For no apparent reason. It's just come up on the wheel of mental maladies. That's what I think.
Also, as I pointed out, it's Sunday.
Lots going on tonight and tomorrow having to do with Paw Paw's funeral. This is the south and for a certain generation there are rituals which must be observed. We shall.
Sunday. The day when the sick eternal soreness under the heartskin rubs closest to the ribs, no matter how the sun shines, no matter how sweet the life, the love.
I think I'll go get my hands in dirt and then later today it will be time to come clean in the shower, to dress and go to town to be with Paw Paw's family. Tomorrow another full day of it.
Respect for family, for friends, for the life, for the words, for the faces, for the eyes, the lips, the legs, the arms, the sky, the dirt, the heart.
Which means attending to. Tending to. Paying attention to. Blundering through.
Purple pancakes in a black skillet. Green plants in dark dirt. Laying to rest, paying respect. Putting aside that which does not serve, bringing forth that which does.
Sunday. And so on.