We watched a short PBS production about Koko the gorilla last night and it just made me sad as fuck. This gorgeous animal whose life has been about making her as human as possible although that wasn't the original idea, I'm sure, and her keeper, her friend, her companion, has spent her entire life with this magnificent animal and the one thing Koko wanted and wants is a baby of her own and that's never happened and now instead of lounging about in trees and great savannas, happily surveying her dynasty, her family, she sits around in a cluttered room where piles of notes and plastic dishes for her food are kept, Penny, the keeper, her only real company. The fact that she gets a birthday cake (and hey! she can blow the candles out! make a wish, Koko!) and a new baby doll for her birthday doesn't seem to be enough to make up for the other stuff.
I'm in a terrible mood.
My hips hurt and kept me awake last night along with the restless legs and I got up and ate Special K cereal and read a magazine, so tired I could barely keep my eyes open but knowing that as soon as I laid myself down and closed them, my legs would jerk and I would be awake again. Finally, finally, I did sleep and now I'm up and in this bad mood and I took a short walk and saw a dead blacksnake, no apparent sign of injury, just dead, ants already exploring the face, the head.
It is deep summer and the swamp mallow is beginning to bloom and the wild lilies that come out of nowhere are showing deep throats.
I saw Miss Shelley at the Post Office and she told me that on her early morning walk, she'd seen a coyote, as big as a German Shepherd. I've often seen the prints of something large and doglike. I guess now I know what made them.
Back to the house and the work on the railroad continues but a train just rumbled past so I guess they're working beside the track, not on it, and I don't have the interest to go and see. So what? So what? So what?
And that feels like my mantra today.
Even my house gives me no pleasure or my yard, either. Everything looks shabby to me and half-assed and dirty. Sitting in the office of the designer yesterday looking at plans, a horrible anger just rose in me and nothing made me happy about any of it until I asked if there could be a sink in the laundry room and somehow that pleased me and just thinking about that makes me sad.
I don't know why.
I don't know why I can't allow myself the joy of anticipation or the satisfaction of that which is. Instead of thinking of the happy hours and days and nights we might spend in a new house on the bay in Apalachicola, all I can think of is how far it is from my grandchildren, a decent hospital, how the very idea of picking out sinks and flooring and beds and sheets and rugs and pots and pans and plates seems such a waste of time which would be better spend doing...what?
The designer and my husband talk about the vegetable boxes we can have on the porches and instead of thinking about how lovely that will be I wonder just how the hell they're going to get there, these boxes, and who's going to haul the dirt up the stairs or the elevator (an elevator! in a house!) and put it in those boxes and if all of this stuff could just happen by magic how lovely that would be but no, there is no magic.
And maybe that's it. I don't feel any magic at all right now. As if all, every drop of my magic has been depleted, used up, passed on and isn't that the way it's supposed to be?
So what? Who cares?
Sometimes I feel as if I shouldn't write about these things, these sorts of feelings. Sometimes I feel as if I've written every fucking word I need to write.
I wonder what Koko would write, if she had become human enough to do that.
I think it would break the heart of the world if she could. I don't believe that some of us could bear that sorrow at all.