I slept last night like the dead, just fell down on the bed and that was the last I knew. It was heaven, a trip to the Elysian Fields, whatever they are. Of course one wakes up and must get up and so here we are. It is gray and still and muggy and people are coming over in six hours. I'm not really doing much for this gathering. Cooking a few things. Mr. Moon snapped and stringed green beans while I was cooking our dinner last night so that part is done. Green beans and potatoes, that's one thing I'll cook.
I better get busy. I'm still wearing my nightgown which is new from Asheville. I bought two of these things. One white, one periwinkle. They are actually slips, I think, the softest cotton and perfect. And they were half price, which is good because dammit, they weren't cheap. I need to get dressed and get moving. I need to just admit that this is a difficult time of year for me. Deep summer, hot August, the earth itself seems tired and weary and breathes with steamy breath. Change is in the wings, and that will be good. This has been a hard year.
Jason's grandmother died yesterday.
So in one year, Owen and Gibson's two great-grandmothers have died. I wonder how much they'll remember of either. They'll probably remember Gigi, Jason's grandma, as she lived with his mother and thus, was more a part of their young lives. Or at least Owen will. And the old must go on, yes, for sure, but it's another heaviness. It's another weight and I look back on this year and if bad things happen in threes I have to ask- which set are we on now?
Up and get dressed, make pancakes, the crickets have begun their morning song, the chickens are percolating in the hen house. Baby's baby is still alive and more and more yellow is showing up in her down. The anxiety sits in my belly like a particularly noxious stone, but it is not the sort which will prevent action. One cannot stop because one is feeling uncomfortable in ones skin or heart or head.
They (they) think they've found a piece of the True Cross in Turkey. Oh boy. That changes everything, doesn't it? Now if they'd only find the body of Christ as Plucky Pursell did in Tom Robbin's Another Roadside Attraction.
Tom- what the fuck happened to you?
This is a question I ask myself frequently.
Among so many others.
Let's get to it.
Happy Sunday from the Church of the Batshit Crazy.