Succulents in my garden, potting soil under my nails. I’ve got a big bruise on my shin already from pushing Audrey on the tree swing. What a swing! I’m already plotting my own. Craigslist has tractor tires for free. I think I’ll drill holes and make it the sort that’s level with the ground– as in, parallel. Need bigger trees. Need to make money. Where did all the silliness go? I used to have it. Used to be romantic and brilliant, used to hop like a mountain goat from thought to thought, tying them together loosely, used to remember things, believed more strongly.
Now I read like my life depends on it. An excuse for not writing, perhaps. I used to remember the things I read, as well. Could recite a plot, a string of preceding novels. I doubt I can go back very far now. Let’s see: just finished Raymond Chandler’s Lady in the Lake, before that was– eek– already choking– oh yes, reread James Herriot’s All Things Great and Small, then reread Turn of the Screw, then Traveling Mercies by what’s her dread face, then Rosie and also Crooked Heart by same, before that was, gee, oh, yes, Sarah Vowell’s delicious Wordy Shipmates, then before that was the Fatal Shore, a history of Australia (actually still working on that, got a hundred more pages to go, it slowed down crazily there), then Barbara Tuchman’s dusty (a la Django) Distant Mirror (which I got bogged down in), then before that .. oh. Who knows. I guess I did better than I thought. I know I skipped a few, but there’s a month or so recorded. Thank God my memory is still sputtering along, sort of.