Gardening is Queen of Chores

Mom saved my day today. Our 14-year-old retriever, Charlie, had dripped diarrhea around a large area of floor, making a huge mess. Of course it was my job to clean it up because, unlike anyone else in my immediate family, my back is just fine and I can bend down very easily. My mother encouraged me to put in the time to clean up the mess before breakfast, and I'm so glad I did. And, left to my own devices, I almost certainly would not have done that. Left to my own volition, I don't know how it would ever have gotten cleaned up!

And then there was gardening. I was unusually groggy this afternoon, even contemplating taking a nap, when my mother insisted I start my gardening chores. I don't get to garden every day so I was able to remark on my experience gardening today. Literally hundreds of generations of human beings have banked their time gardening, so it's little wonder that this activity soothed the anxiety that can accompany other pursuits -- the anxiety borne of fear that the moments are somehow not being put to their best use. I had a pretty good day because I was able to borrow volition from my mother. And that is how humans have handled things for hundreds of generations -- borrowing one another's volition.

Don't get me wrong. I think that in general duress is a bad thing. But this encouragement I enjoyed today stopped short of being duress. And whatever it was, it worked out well for me in this case.

Monday Monday

I drove my father to the TV station where he's camping out today.

Strains of "Revolver" stream through my browser.

Um, um, what else? I forgive myself for looking a little ratty and drowned today. The heat wave is just passing.

Laundry is on the agenda for today. I need to pull together loose ends and make a fresh, new to-do list. I need to deal with a parking ticket someone with a similar license plate to mine racked up while I was out of town. The grant I might qualify for deserves looking into. And my legs need to be waxed. A freelance writing assignment needs to be finished and polished; while another one has died without a kill fee. Let me explain. It's not on me. The scientist who discovered the thing I'm supposed to write about wrote to me, saying essentially that no one has yet undertaken the primary research that would have allowed journalists to write the type of article I hastily undertook last week. The publisher's guidelines state clearly that this will sometimes happen and that, in this case, the article is killed (probably sans kill fee, which sucks because I put in the time.) It's just that, the publisher hasn't given me the final word on this particular case, which leaves me a little nervous. (What if they found another scientist? What if they decide not to support my decision?)

My depression has lifted a little, probably because it's around my 4th day on the rag. Anxiety and depression seem to lift the first day. I imagine it continues to dissipate throughout my period, but I don't really pay enough attention to know if I can expect that in general.

"Revolver" is one of my musical contemporaries, as I put it. Although it was released and charting around the time I was born, many of the songs were airplay-popular again a few years later, when the Beatles broke up. The album is a substantial part of my childhood.

John and Yoko Dish about the big Duce?

I'm playing "Revolver," just remembered my take on "She Said She Said --" It sounds a little like John and Yoko talking about childhood memories of World War II. My version:

He said
Baby the Atlantic was blitzed
She said the Pacific was bombed
And they're making me feel like
I've never been born

This Poem is Hereby Copyrighted by Me

Josie went to space
and sang a song
to English-speaking aliens
who danced along
now her story was simple
and not too bright
but I'll bet you old red
got just one thing right

I think aliens would love our music
terrestrial song is just what this galaxy needs
aliens would love our music
be they hatched from eggs
or sprung from tiny seeds
yeah
aliens would love our music

Vic Fontaine sang
In an antique style
All the creatures in the holosuite
Came to stay awhile
And listen to the syncopated melody
Odo snaps his fingers just like you and me

'Cause aliens would love our music
terrestrial song is just what this galaxy needs
aliens would love our music
be they hatched from eggs
or sprung from tiny seeds
yeah
aliens would love our music

Now I'm gonna go
right down to SETI
and hook up my amp
and rock all ready
I'll tell all those creatures
in outer space
if they want some more
come jam with the human race

Aliens would love our music
terrestrial song is just what this galaxy needs
aliens would love our music
be they hatched from eggs
or sprung from tiny seeds
yeah
aliens would love our music

What a Stress-fest!

Waiting for someone to leave the house is unbearable. You can't do anything or get involved in anything, because this person will have volumes to speak on the way out, and if you're involved in anything you will be called away. You have to listen now, because there is no later -- they're leaving -- or so they say. They'll leave at the last minute in a rush. Your mind is filling with chores and projects you will have to start after they leave.

Yesterday and Today

Yesterday I went out with an old friend and conversed for almost five hours. That was nice.

Today what I'm up against is poison ivy, the return of my appetite, lots of work to do -- new client, old client, prospective client, gardening -- animals that need their medicine, a plumber who can't help me anymore, distracting thoughts, a chilly day in June.

Note to the Future

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Branch (real name, why not?) pointed out to us children that one of the ways people abused one another was by requiring one another to be at a certain place at a certain time. I think she even pointed out the 15 minute tolerance. At some time between then and now, the rules were relaxed. Doctors no longer charge patients for missed appointments, for example, presumably because everyone's in such a tizzy that the old expectations are really too much to ask.

I don't mean to suggest that Mrs. Branch's observation would no longer apply, only that society has relented somewhat, in consideration of today's jam-packed schedules. The change seemed to start about 25 years ago, by my reckoning.

More Brain Dump

My wonderful ex-fiancee Anwar is coming over for a visit. I was of two minds about this. On the one hand, I don't want to encourage any kind of emotional infidelity (towards his new wife.) On the other hand, humans weren't designed to be close to one another and then lose one another for good. People are meant to live and die in the same community with the same people. People should always continue to associate with (or at least be open to associating with) the people they've been close to -- or even people they used to associate with in any capacity. Anything less seems unnatural and just wrong.


I dreamed about Nicola again lately, a couple of times actually. In these dreams I travel and try to make contact with Nicola, who also seems to be traveling. In these dreams I am elated to be close to him. In real life Nicola is not someone I can relate to. Nobody knows what he's about. Nobody knows what he hopes to accomplish in this lifetime or what makes him tick. I have a better rapport with my cat than with Nicola. At least I have some idea of what is important to the cat, language barrier notwithstanding.


I just had a 670 calorie dinner that's sitting heavy in me. I couldn't eat another bite.

Brain Dump

I seem to be in one of those client traps where they pay you too little to get the job done. (Sigh.) Ironically, my boss at the art school is in the same trap. I've heard about it before. It's a classic. One guy (unfortunately one I worked for) said he often bargained contractors down so low that he couldn't get them to show up and ultimately had to renegotiate.

Well, that guy (a Baltimore businessman, nobody who would be reading this) was out of control but, in general, you can't blame clients. They offer what they can, or at least it's polite to assume that they do.


Was it LeRochefucauld who said that people who do small things become incapable of doing large things? I think that this has happened to me a lot. I used to have a lot to say for myself, but now when I sit down to write I just get annoyed because my head is full of chopstick.

My cat loves the song "Georgia on my Mind" by Ray Charles. It just came on the radio now. Many of the animals I know have special songs I sing to them, which they come to associate with my affection. One cat, Spike, had a set of songs that meant different things to him. There was "Henry VIII," which meant that we were driving home. There was "Moonshadow," which meant that we were going for a walk. I made up a little tune called "Kitty go Ridin'" which he actually didn't seem to appreciate as much as the others. I also had a version of "Hey, Mickey" (Toni Basil) to express affection for little Spike.

One day, when Spike was about seventeen and on his last legs, he lay sprawled on my mother's porch as I prepared to drive home to Pennsylvania. I said, "C'mon, Spike; We're leaving," but he didn't acknowledge. Then my mother stroked him and told him to get up because I was leaving. Still, Spike didn't budge. I said, "Now, watch this, Mom," and I whistled "Henry XIII," whereupon Spike perked right up and went to the car! Oh, I love Spike!


Man, what was I so eager to write when I was out walking the dogs and the thoughts were really flowing? I don't know, but maybe I should list some short-range, medium-range and long-range plans.

Short-range: Follow up on doctor visit; pony up $118 for a new toilet; do some laundry; get more work; get some exercise (re-discover the White Album again?); get a shower; get some sleep and try not to be depressed... What else? I know there's much more I need to be worried about right now. Where is it hiding? I have to find some documents for an art school meeting; write to a priest about how I suck at getting good things done, and how I'm not sure God will have me, and how I want to fix both of these things, or maybe just let God fix them.

Medium-range: Build my house -- maybe prospecting for all kinds of help on facebook wouldn't be a bad idea.

I sent out some fishing lines and nobody bit. I'm a good writer and I'm really good at a lot of things. I should be gainfully employed, not just hand-to-mouth.

A neighbor who apparently liked my art once said that she was waiting for me to paint an heap of pictures and simply go into business selling my art on the internet. How would I get from here to there? I barely have time to visit the latrine, and not because I'm busy winning rewards but just because I'm busy staying out of trouble.

What Am I, Captain Von Trappe?

I saw the weirdest sale at the supermarket recently. Large loaves of bread sat behind a sign that said, "Buy one, get one free!"

My Letter to Hillary

I strongly urge you to deny permits to TransCanada, and stop the construction of the Keystone XL pipeline through our communities and lands.

Tar sands oil production is incredibly toxic and puts American communities and wildlife populations at risk, while setting us back from our goal of transitioning to clean renewable energy sources.

I can't believe you were considering this. It doesn't sound like you at all! Somebody up there must be twisting your arm. Make them stop. I know that you and the Obamas sometimes consider items like this as bargaining chips so that powerful interests will be more amenable to the progressive agendas that are being put forward on behalf of the working poor, such as myself. But one thing I have to say (and I wish I had said it to the president before the BP oil spill) is that I'm not worth "bargaining chips" that imperil the earth. People like me have been abused since 1980, and if this is what it takes to rescue us, forget it. Let us continue to be abused by corporations, Republicans, employers, creditors etcetera, but protect the Earth and its innocent creatures.