"Or" is one of those words that if you use it a lot, it starts to look really weird and wrong. Just saying. And no, I'm not stoned.
I feel useless. Didn't get much of the garden hoed. Let me tell you something- hoeing is hard work. I don't know how those people used to do it. And plenty still do it- you know, those illegal immigrants who come here and get a brand new Cadillac, food stamps, free education, and premium health care at absolutely no cost just because they cross the border? People who labored and who do labor in the fields for fourteen hours a day or from-can-to-can't, as they said. Can see until can't see.
If I had to work like that to make my bread I'd just flat-out die.
I do have clean sheets on the bed. I held them to my face, folded up from the line and their silken crispness smelled exactly like sheets dried on the line should smell. I hope Maurice appreciates them.
I took the trash down to the trash place and Lord, a candidate for a local office was standing on the corner in Mr. Lawrence's old parking lot (did they get permission from Mr. Lawrence?) with his wife and about four hangers-on, waving signs and their hands and grinning like crazy and there was a fucking Elvis impersonator. If that's what it takes to get elected in this county then we deserve what we get. I've gotten about fifteen mailings from this guy. He wears a pilot's outfit in his picture and he, like everyone, claims to be Christian and is all about lowering taxes and doing something to encourage business growth in Jefferson County. I was in a play with his wife once. They own a B&B nearby and I remember Colin once describing it as a place that looked "like a doily factory exploded in it."
Well, what B&B doesn't? Add that to all the fucking potpourri and having to eat breakfast in a room with strangers who probably want to make conversation and I avoid those things like the plague.
Anyway, he's not the person I'm personally voting for and I seriously doubt that Mr. Lawrence did give them permission because when we talked last he referred to the man's opponent by her first name and called her a "sweetheart."
Well, y'all. This is what local politics are like and I may have just made about fifty-eight new enemies and so what?
No one's paying me for anything and this is America, home of the free, land of the brave, where you can carry a gun because it's your god-given right, and say what you want, no matter how idiotic you sound.
Thank you very much. And for my next song...
Well, hell. The chickens are putting themselves to bed. There's always some squabble going on as they choose their roosts for the night. The hens fuss and work it out but Elvis always gets his own Most Special Employee Of The Forever nest-roost. It all reminds me so much of the court of the Tudor Royalty. I'm not even kidding you.
So. Yeah. Melancholy. This might be an evening of solo Tito drinking and Youtube Rolling Stones watching.
I just found this one a few minutes ago and I love it for the Old Ronnie/Old Keith guitar communication work. It's from a concert filmed last June and if you watch the whole thing, you can see Keith and Ronnie literally getting down and sometimes, when the melancholy overtakes you, you can't do shit but watch a little Rolling Stones.
Maurice brought home another squirrel tail today, this one totally attached to the squirrel. I heard her bell tinkling in the kitchen bathroom and went to investigate and there she was, working over a perfect, unbleeding corpse of a teenaged squirrel.
"Sigh," I said, Mr. Moon being nowhere in sight.
I got the broom and swept the poor creature onto the dustpan and walked it out to the woods behind the chicken coop and threw it over the fence.
"I'm sorry," I said, as I heaved it.
And I am.
A week from tonight I'll be in Roseland, watching the sunset over the Sebastian River. We might end up in the lion pool.
Who knows? Not me. But if history tells us anything, it could very possibly happen. The pool I discovered as a child which seemed as mysterious as an Egyptian pyramid to my little eight-year old self. Last night I dreamed that I was staying in Roseland and somehow had to take a child back to the house where my best friend, Lucille Ferger lived. In my dream I had a very strong olfactory sense of what that house had smelled like. I've never done that before that I can recall. It smelled of urine and rodents and old linoleum, which in my dream, I saw peeled up in the corners. That house is still there. I don't know if my dream-memory-smell was anything like what Lucille's house really smelled like but I'll never forget the night she and I camped out under a tent made of a blanket spread between their garage and chicken coop with our little mosquito repellent burner and the millions of stars which shone above us in the night time sky.
If you can't have sweet dreams, then have some damn interesting ones. Okay?