Just a few minutes ago, I said to Ed -- I am so sick of my life! And I meant it. He didn't bat an eye. In fact, I think he smiled a little over there, in the corner of the couch.
Of course, I'm not talking about my current life! Never that. What I am tired of is editing the book I've now (sort of) completed (is any writer ever done?), which has rehashed too many details of my childhood, with too many years spent in the writing of it all, and way too many edits and re-saves and new files opened and closed, because, well, you know, I'm never going to be totally satisfied with the thing.
I have started exploring the options that I have (very few) in terms of publication and distribution and this of course requires more reading, cutting, pasting, sending, consulting -- all about those damn childhood years that seem now comically childish because, well, at 68, I am wiser than I was, say, at 7. You try writing about your thought processes at maybe age 11. Classic tween stuff. See how good you feel about yourself when you put those years under a microscope.
At least when you blog as an adult, you dont worry too much about sounding immature, because in the here and now we always believe our heads are screwed on tight and our brains are functioning at full adult capacity. But way back then? Yes, I admit it, I really said that and sounded that juvenile! Earnest, but horribly young.
* * *
We have a chain of stunning days and I am deeply grateful for that Adirondack on the porch, otherwise, given all the writing I've been doing, I'd feel the beautiful weather will have passed me by. I do, of course, spend a handful of early morning hours in the flower fields. I think I snipped a record number of lily heads today, but somewhere in the middle of that project my thoughts drifted and suddenly I forgot if it was number 287 or 387 or maybe even 487, so I stopped counting and concentrated on whistling, which the cats and chickens find weird, but I'm not going to worry about pleasing them. Whistling is always gratifying, because it brings another layer of sensual joy to the rather repetitive work. But of course, the colors and the delicacy of each day-old bloom (against a backdrop of false sunflowers or purple phlox) are are the real stars for me. See if you don't agree.
With breakfast on the porch.
And then I stay on that porch and work. All day long, until, looking up, I saw a very pretty sunset. Worth greeting on a moped.
Goodnight sunset, goodnight prairie grasses everywhere!
