I am in a solitary, not so happy with myself mood tonight. My feelings of adequacy and fair contentment have passed for the moment and I am currently beating myself about the back and shoulders with a lead-weighted cat'o'nine tails. Metaphorically, of course.
But I am actually wearing clothes which, when compared to sackcloth and ashes would not hold up favorably, but hell, you know.
I got a good bit of the garden weeded today but honest to god, weeding is one of those things that when you're on your death bed, you will not be thinking about with any great pride. I pull plants out of the ground and throw them into a Rubber Maid cart and listen to books on CD so basically, all I'm doing is cooking my skin, getting filthy, and doing something meaningless while I listen to a crappy book read by a narrator who for some reason thinks the main female character should sound just like Bill Clinton on one of his raspier days. I mean, exactly.
Here's a real goddam complaint I have: When you're writing a fucking book, don't pretend you know what camellias smell like because CAMELLIAS DON'T HAVE A SCENT, OKAY? SHUT THE FUCK UP. WRITE ABOUT GARDENIAS IF YOU WANT A FLOWER WITH SCENT!
You know what really pisses me off? The fact that I am NOT writing. I am not writing, I am not mopping, I am not sewing, I am not cleaning mildew off of surfaces, I am not tidying, I am not throwing shit away, I am not taking care of friends who probably need taking care of, I am not engaged in society to any degree whatsoever, and I am not writing.
Also, truthfully, at this moment I am not enjoying the dogs who are constantly barking a few houses down and I am not enjoying the sound of the drums from the Revival Center next door.
Okay? That's the honest to god truth.
Here's some more stuff I'm not doing: making an appointment to get my eyes examined and new glasses so that I can actually see without closing an eye, and one to get my hair, which has now grown to an absurd length, trimmed. We won't even breathe a hint of my inability to make an appointment for all of the medical crap I know I need to do such as colonoscopies, mammograms, and other decidedly female and/or just generally human being stuff.
No, no, no.
I am not doing yoga, I am not reading poetry. I am not IMPROVING MY MIND in any way unless you count watching videos of Twerking Going Horribly Wrong and I don't think that counts. I am not being especially kind in my thoughts and in fact, am having thoughts which are downright mean. And nasty. And not just about dentists but about people who don't deserve my mean and nasty thoughts but are perhaps just a little too earnest. I am also not eating especially well. In fact, I have eaten things in the past two days which I will not even disclose.
Whipped cream and blue cheese may have been involved although not at the same time.
I do have some goddammed scruples and taste.
Not many or much though.
You know what I have always thought? That I have both of my grandfathers inside of me. One of my grandfathers was incredibly brilliant and although he was an attorney by vocation, his true love was music and the writing of it. The man clerked for Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes after he graduated from HARVARD LAW SCHOOL, and collaborated with Cole Porter WHILE AT YALE in the composition of songs for college shows.
But mostly, in his later life, he drank because he was horribly unhappy. Probably because he was a lawyer specializing in "corporate, banking, insurance and business law" according to his obituary, when he really wanted to be a bon vivant, writing show tunes and musicals. My main memory of him is of a roly-poly merry man, sitting at his grand piano, smelling delightfully of bourbon and cashews, playing and singing songs I thought he wrote for me, his little granddaughter whom he called "Gibby" because my middle name is Gibson which is what his mama's maiden name was. Mary Lua (Lua?) Gibson.
My other grandfather was the most disciplined, unemotional, absolutely decent, sober, precise individual I have ever known. He bought wood for the Cavalier Cabinet Corporation, supported his family through the depression, believed in the religion of A Place For Every Thing And Every Thing In Its Place in all ways, retired to Roseland, Florida where he had an amazing compost pile, planted trees, grew tomatoes, belonged to the Power Squadron, trimmed palms and chopped wood in the blazing heat, read me chapter books out loud and played checkers with me.
He lived to be in his nineties while my other grandfather died in his early seventies and there is no mystery there although the longer-lived grandfather frequently told me not to get old. He hated old age. Hated it with a passion, the loss of physical strength and control and autonomy.
So throw those two together and let them dance together in my DNA and let's not even talk about what my grandmothers were like- one whom I knew, one whom I have only the wispiest memory of- and there you have me. Plus all the others whom I do not even know the slightest thing about, of course.
And my own experiences and lessons learned in childhood and what I've figured out and mostly what I haven't figured out and some days- well, it's just a big old stew of confusion and self-doubt and stern-talking-to-myself and doing a lot of weeding.
I'm going to go make a martini. And listen to the end of Prairie Home Companion. And make some chicken and rice out of my leftovers from two nights ago with celery and onions and peppers. And try to forgive myself for being who I am and for what I am not.
We'll see how that works out.
Much love...Ms. Moon, The Highly Confused At Times