The point of a writing class is to write stuff you wouldn’t otherwise write. This week I wrote an essay about cobwebs in which I rhapsodized about the nasty, looping cobwebs in our ancient basement. And in so doing I figured out many things. I bet you have a basement with mysteries, too. Write about it. Unless you live in Florida or California where basements don’t exist. Then you are on your own.
We are all about the dog. It hasn’t even been a month since our beloved Minnie died and we are over the moon about our new dog, Swirl. He is healthy. That is the difference. It takes a toll caring for the dying – dogs or humans. You forget what it’s like to stroll down the street carefree. This week we remembered. It’s lovely and joyous.
“He (or she, no, never she, always he) is a lying sack of shit” is one of the priceless phrases from my intense anti-poverty agency days. I watch said sack every night on the news and wish my old colleagues would rise up and yell at him and that everyone else would quit dancing around the truth of his endless, shameless lying. Voting is the only thing that will put the sack in the trash.
By some queer gift of God, I always imagine myself to be thinner and better looking than I actually am. This allows me to have a happy-go-lucky attitude much of the time until someone captures me in a photograph where the truth shows itself. Oh well. I wear delusion like a magic cape and it fits fine. And, yes, I did tuck my shirt in for the first time in about 5 years and it felt swell.
Tomorrow, it is supposed to snow, a lot, and I am oddly looking forward to it. I like having snow except for the cold and the shoveling because it covers up garden issues. Snow tomorrow means I don’t have to wrestle with the crazy ass bush with the 500 foot root that the landscaper didn’t extract when he had the chance and which is already growing like steroided ganglia next to my porch. The snow will smother it, if only for a day.