People opting out of writing class today, including me. We canceled our trip to Quebec at month’s end, which was itself a substitute after canceling a trip to Rome. Even a dinner party for Saturday is likely to be deferred til later in the year.
People are freaking out.
My brother, who is sixty and has two underlying conditions that put him at risk, is an ER doctor. This weekend, he has two shifts at a Long Island hospital with recent cases of coronavirus.
How not to worry?
One son is a security guard who doesn’t even get sick time. If they close the building and force telecommuting, he will be out of a paycheck indefinitely.
K rides the T for about 80 minutes a day. In and out of Boston.
How not to worry?
K’s brother cancels trip to see their father at the nursing home. Visitors allowed, but with restrictions.
During Finn’s and my walk just now, I listened to a podcast about the necessity of local community. Consider getting my street linked up by email so that we can help each other out.
- Future Primitive:
In other news, I found a manuscript consultant and her name is ‘Joy.’ I spent the weekend muttering to myself, “I’ll be conferring with Joy.” “Joy is going to help me with my writing.” “How sweet to have an agreement with Joy!”
A gifted bowl. Milkweed pods sprayed gold by my sister.
Our relationship to things changes over time, doesn’t it?
I’m always ready to take the decorations down before husband and somehow feel a little bad about that. What does my eagerness signal?
Don’t get me wrong. I love the sweet nutcrackers, the festive wreaths, and the sentimental decorations given to the boys year in and year out. They represent a life lived and lived with some modicum of joy.
They signal the advent of time-outside-of-time.
In other years, the enjoyment of displaying decorations and the pleasure at putting them away ran about 50/50. This year, there was no contest. I felt a visceral relief clearing the spaces. I can almost imagine not bothering with any of it at some point.
I’ll leave you with this shot from Finn’s and my morning walk and a stanza from a poem by Wallace Stevens:
K will be home tonight after ten days away. Ten days is a lot longer than six. I lost interest in food during this absence, which I can’t explain. Seems all I want to eat is an eight year old’s diet: yogurt, blueberries, pancakes, and cereal. I made granola. Finn got the rib eye.
When we returned from Denver all the boxes of my sister’s stuff felt oppressive — even the ones in the garage.
Writing stalls and twists in on itself. To “get to yes,” I have to reduce a task to its smallest component. Not “open laptop and log in” small — but almost.
Dog walks provide ballast. The flag iris, so regal last week, start to fade and wither while the Japanese iris rise up in tight buds or open flowers of the deepest purple. It’s a pretty time of year.
The way certain things back up while K is away can be managed –right? — the critical appointments, the hopes for a beach house rental in August. Assertive is what I’ll be. Instead of bitchy.
Meanwhile Father’s Day approaches. I know what I WON’T be buying. Check out the price on these swim trunks. I was blowing through Bloomingdale’s yesterday and this little ticket blew my fucking mind.
One of the neighborhood library kiosks had a book he’d enjoy. I took it. That will prompt me to deliver a handful of books in return. A win/win. No money exchanged.
Tomorrow, Salem apartment inspection and key hand over. A finality, there.
The house and garage at this end are stuffed in spite of vigorous give aways and throw outs. But it can all wait ’til I get back.
This windowsill photo was taken roughly one year before my sister died just before the movers came. Who knew how little time she had left.
Aside from an eye hemorrhaged enough to warrant an urgent care visit yesterday, everything continues apace. The crocus are up, Euros obtained, tickets to the Villa Borghesi purchased, and a keyboard for tablet ordered (my old lap top is heavy!)
The football game is on. A fire snaps in the fireplace. Leftover stew was divine.
This Cloth doodle irked. The layers impeded handquilting, so I’m calling it done.
