Anxiety, self-doubt, accomplishment, laughter, fear, loathing, it was just your run-of-the-mill pandemic, presidential- coup-on-the-horizon kind of week. We are, you all realize, getting to the point where nothing really fazes us. It’s not numbness. I don’t think we’re numb. I think we have extremely developed impending doom muscles. It’s a shame we’ve had to develop them, but we’ll be glad in the end.
I read an essay to a group of people via Zoom last night. I’ve done this before for my writers’ workshop but this was different since it was part of an event involving eight other writers whose pieces interpreting specific photographs were selected in a competition. So it felt formal but it wasn’t which goes to what my daughter has been saying – Zoom oddly feels more intimate than an actual meeting. I think it’s the closeness of the faces. I read third so after I was done and there was a bathroom break, I made a drink and listened to everyone else’s work and it was lovely.
We asked our son to come over tomorrow to change a light bulb. He’s tall and the light fixture is up high but it feels like an incident that might go in our file later, you know, as evidence of our declining capabilities. When you get older you start thinking of these queer little things, like did you mow the lawn in straight lines and the like.
We bought an RV. And in so doing, we may have also lost our minds. It’s a 22′ camper, super cute inside, like a little rolling lake cabin. It’s where I’m planning to live out my lifetime dream of a Travels with Charley existence. Before we bought it, we looked at a camper van – think Amazon delivery truck – which was about four feet wide with a Murphy bed made of plywood hooked to the wall. It also had a cartridge toilet which I thought was clever, just unlock the ‘cartridge’ and roll it like a suitcase to, say, a pit toilet or wherever and dumping it, so slick. But I soured on the cartridge idea the more I thought about it – rolling through a campground with my little “suitcase.”
I’m looking forward to winter since I gave up on my garden weeks ago and now just want it covered with snow. This is the part of the year when I have my annual reckoning about what a terrible gardener I am and when I come to hate the dependency of plants, their incessant neediness. The outrageously prolific zucchinis are done (I think, I don’t want to look) and the petunias are all dying and I’m glad. It’s time to move on.