Kind of elated, kind of tired. Kind of incomplete because there’s so much left.
Still, headway is headway.
Our renovation is coming. We have a floor most of the way across a room. Camping out in the downstairs is actually kind of fun. There’s a nice morning light there. There’s a heating vent shooting right at my elbow all night.
I have slept well for feel-like-unprecedented 4 days in a row. Good sleep = optimism.
I’m knee deep in 3 different manuscripts of mine and in the layout of 2 others for others. Knee deep isn’t nearly deep enough to swim but it’s a start.
I have sent out the second newsletter. (If you want to sign up, here.)
Return to the gardening’s slow lane. We’ve only have the slightest lightest touch of frost. Kale, cucumbers and tomatoes are still producing. The beans would have been too had we got to them first.
Not your type of thing? This for type geeks may be fun to explore: Typewriter Database.
There’s also this rather delightful article on punctuation. Beth Hill writes, “the semicolon brings a rhythm to sentences that other punctuation can’t offer[...] sometimes you want the feel that only a semicolon produces.”
Yay Words has flash fiction hybridized with haibun. Interesting dense effect.
It’s hard to remember to not keep busy-busy momentum going until depletion. Full stops have their uses too.
As gratifying as it was to get my LinkedIn profile updated, and some submissions sent out, and books read, and poems edited, physical work feels like more was done.
To take a page from Kate Braid, these hips were made for carrying flooring. The lot of it carried upstairs. Sometimes by 5 boards when I felt strong. 3 boards per load when I felt like resting. Another stage is done. Woo. Whew.
The best part of teamwork, beyond doing something together might be the get hot, shirtless parts. A perk.
And under the carpet and its underpadding, there are surprises like:
We were in the running for a corner Jacuzzi from the previous occupants? But got a closet there instead. Ah well, easy no come, not go.
All that tile is ripped out. Places on the floor look as dodgy in person as they did thru carpet. They are still to fix or shim or something.
We’re trying to take it bit by bit to not overdo it. At the same time, we’re eager to get it done and get the dander and allergen collectors gone and good solid, unsqueaky bamboo in. That’ll be sweet.
I swear I spend more time behind than a horse’s tail because at least that has time to get up and swat flies.
Ambition’s the problem. Or is that greed for knowledge?
I’m always in a pall of fatigue after a bit of writers fest after I try to press a lot thru my brain.
This pacing thing can be hard. Especially on Day 6 of a wondrously varied headache that sometimes seems to crest towards migraine aura then recedes to something like sinus headache than takes a crack at normal old headache across the crown. A wee peep in the night and something riding a digestive bronco. Gut-busting I tell ya this falling asleep towards dawn.
Had a dream that I finished a book of sonnets and took one last scansion glance and it was all strictly in trochees.
Ah well, should be time to r&r now that home reno has started, right, right?
Pulling back out of habits gives perspective into habits.
Consequently I have curtailed my online to see what happens when I use for minutes instead of hours. I set a stopwatch and before noon, a minute here or there added up to my 1/2 hour of social media and email.
I am trying to rewire myself to pause and prioritize instead of plunging to whatever is handy because that will be the newest and eye-baubliest not the most worthwhile. Rest instead. More present, more directed.
You can take the kayaker out of the lake but can’t take away the effect, for a while, at least. The rhythm of life that surfaced was good. Brain waves slowed. Eventually relaxation sunk into deeper self after the impatience of the hump of stir crazy and wanting my nervous habits.
My habit is to lash forward, time check, monitoring, self-interruption, animation, agitation, keep the stimulation coming because when I stop, I crash and am down for the long reboot. But if I go at a more measured pace, maybe that too shifts. Or maybe not. At the end of the day, productive or unproductive, there’s often fatigue. How to up the satisfaction ratio?
I’m reading Robert Bly’s Selected, which has essays alongside. He was speaking of Hart Crane’s Pastorale”
No more violets,
And the year
Broken into smoky panels.
What woods remember now
Her calls, her enthusiasms?
Of it he says, “The lines are brief and turn over quietly, and we feel a tentative probing that is very attractive, as if the writer hesitates to impose a five-beat line on the reader[...] Blake believed that public art is crucial to a nation[...] I think we all want poetry that can at times embody public speech, a way of writing that is not introverted.[...] Whitman’s ebullient energy, is a line of authority and power that unfolds, unrolls, or catapults into the outer world.”
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green.
Interesting somehow. Partly in how he suggests line and meter are inherantly fitting with internal speech and another pattern about making public speech. Both can be poetry but to different ends.
Why do I keep myself in a state of hurry/harried? Even when I refuse to move, I am at the same pace mentally.
I saw what I hadn’t. The sumac leaves were rolled into seeming fruits, follow except for the inhabitant. Who had done that? I grew up near 2 fields of sumac and don’t recall seeing such cocoon or egg weaving.
The savage vigour of the forest creeps
into our veins, and laughs upon our lips;
the warm blood kindles from forgotten deeps,
and surges tingling to finger tips.
The deep-pend life awakens and bursts its bands;
we feel the strength and goodness of our hands.
A book called Survival Wisdom & Know-How told how acorns were gathered in such abundance to be a staple of mash and cakes.
Many of them looked like wormy apples inside, or with the grain of a nutmug. A little track could be taken out like a bad spot, but 2 cups in, after you take off the caps, shells and iffy bits, we were under a 1/4 cup yield.
How presumptuous of me to see excess and unused waiting for me to take. How very imperial to enter a foreign wood and think I can take what I like as I like, that what falls is what squirrels don’t want and what ground won’t sprout. I put the shell back together which is of little use after the caesarian by this blacksmith. Maybe it’s a rare thing. I tried to shell more and disturbed 3 more before I called myself off.
This little grub was not who the squirrels would have dropped but who the squirrel was looking for. Like dogs who love the larvae of June bugs, this is a treat for rodents. Apparently foraging people eat them and September is peak season. But this entomologist disagrees; squirrels disprefer weevilly ones. But chipmunks don’t according to this discussion board at BugGuide; this kind of information sharing at a distance is the internet at its best, not news gossip or sharing a feeling. It almost brings a happy tear to the eye.
The windstorm knocked over the whole tangled mess of morning glory/grapevine/raspberry canes, snapped their stakes and pulled them off their tendrils and fence.
Our blueberry is still surviving underneath the runners of enthusiastic morning glory. They can feel the sun again. I procured some eggshells to scatter at the base of the rhubarb that snails still find so numlicious.
I presume I can just leave the onions down there for next year. Cleaning out some areas of the garden I find that the ground has reabsorbed the onion greens and the lettuce. And yellow clover has acted as a shelter for Manitoba Maples. Even in sock and sweater weather they are still growing a little porous forest.
Our watermelon radishes are pretty intense. The kale has recovered. What I thought was a row of radish has some tiny turnips. I could have sworn I sowed the turnips in the other raised bed where the arugula overtook them just before the pink blossoming thing and an anthill took over the money plant. Arugula is one strident plant. It is still sending up new greens.
Meanwhile upstairs I’m cleaning out the medicine drawer and checking the dates on all the cold meds, antihistamines, pain relievers, and muscle relaxants. So many boxes gone.
It occurs to me that you don’t need to give people excuses with a request. Give them credit for their creativity. All your saying that that does is to give the subtext of please refuse me which will become the real message.