Mr. Moon and I watched some of "Funny Girl" last night as we ate our delicious supper and this morning I have "Don't Rain On My Parade" as sung by Barbra Streisand ear-worming my brain and it's a bit disconcerting.
Elvis is crowing and ordering Mick away from the hens and Mick is crowing and keeping his distance
(Can you see Mick back by the gate?)
and it's a beautiful day and by god, when we die, there better be no dreaming because I can't deal with this shit any more. Every time I wake up in the night and then again in the morning, I've just had some horrible dream and truly, I think it's making me insane. All the damn themes are there. The not-ready-for-a-test-in-fact-what-class-is-this? dream. The I'm-driving-a-car-and-I-have-no-control-over-it dream. The why-did-I-let-this-Bozo-of-an-old-boyfriend-back-in-my-life? dream. The dreams of houses which are packed full of the detritus of former owners and I-have-to-do-something-about-the-shit dreams and those are always full of people who need meals and beds and clean sheets and towels. The where-is-my-husband-and-why-won't-he-come-save-me? dream. The I've-lost-the-children dream. The I'm-about-to-go-onstage-and-don't-even-know-what-play-we're-doing dream. The oh-my-god-I-haven't-fed-the-chickens-in-days-and-where-is-their-coop-in-this-new-yard? dream.
It's exhausting and I swear, my brain is having a hard time coming up with new scenarios to demonstrate and underline my anxieties, fears, worries, dysfunctions and general neurosis.
Where is the fucking acceptance and wisdom of old age? Huh? Huh?
Because I'm about ready for some of that shit. I've got the wrinkles and gray hair. Could I have some of the peace?
Well, la-di-dah and the wisteria is starting to put out their little fuzzy buds and the Buckeye blooms are about to turn red.
Of course, this is one of my favorite signs of spring coming for sure:
Got a clue as to what that is?
About two thousand baby spiders just hatching out of the eggs one of my Golden Orb Weaver mamas attached to the ceiling of the side porch with silk before she died last fall.
No. I am not kidding you. And that's not the only hatch by any means. I suppose they must survive on the egg casing and silks until they get big enough to start catching and eating bugs. Poor little things. I doubt one in a hundred lives.
Mr. Moon is on his second trip to town today. He got up and out before I even woke up this morning to get new tires on a vehicle and now he's gone to a basketball game and then to T-Ball practice. I think I'll go pull easy weeds in the garden just to have an excuse to be outside in this sun. I'm listening to a book by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. "The Angel's Game." It's set in Barcelona and it's sort of gorgeous and a bit supernatural and I love it. I hear it's a prequel to another book he wrote earlier, "The Shadow Of The Wind," which makes me happy because I have that to look forward to.
Better to be in the sun on my knees in the dirt than thinking about the horrors that went on fifty years ago in Selma, the horrors that are still happening every day in places like Ferguson, ISIS destroying priceless ancient works of art, the bill that a huge asshole in Florida is trying to pass making it punishable for up to a year in prison if you use a public restroom which does not correspond to your birth-gender. The world is a red hot cluster-fuck and I myself have no way to uncluster that fuck at this moment and so I might as well go weed the garden and listen to gothic fiction being read by a guy with a voice that makes me purr.
Hey- did you know that boiled peanuts taste more like cooked dried soybeans than they taste like roasted peanuts? It's true.
I just thought I'd tell you that in case you've been wondering.
I'm here to serve. Don't rain on my parade. Etc.