I'm going to do a few things, like yesterday I got the fountain up and (sorta) running, and I'll probably tinker with it again since it's not running as strongly as I'd like it to. And I'll replace the short, connector hose between the hose caddy and the spigot, and I want to rig the mister up on a crook so that the hummingbirds can take showers. I had the idea to run it up the house and down the eave to the Menopausal Goddess and hook it to her hand somehow but Durwood said it wouldn't work, so I guess it'll go on the crook. (dammit) I also need (NEED) to get going on my birthday gift for DIL1. Sewing's on my mind a lot these days, I just need to get down there and fire up the machines. (have to vacuum down there first, don't forget, Barbara) One thing I'm not doing is weeding the garden. I realized that the weeds aren't going anywhere and I need a break so they'll get their turn next Tuesday (when it's supposed to be cooler--see the brilliance of my plan now?). My pal Skully wants to do something this weekend too. I don't know what. I'd like to DO something too. Maybe go fly kites? Ride our bikes on the downtown trail? Not sure what but something. Yoga last night was interesting and different. We did stretches, mostly lying on our backs, lifting knees, stretching hamstrings (ooch), twisting, holding--it was lovely. That Mardi, she's a wonder, every week is my favorite. Mmm, Durwood sure makes good coffee. I think I'll keep him. Poor baby had one of those nights where he couldn't sleep for sh*t. I guess he tossed and turned, got up, went back to bed in his bed (different from our bed), got up, tossed...you know how that goes. And he'd been up and down the stairs all day yesterday doing the laundry too so he should have been good and tired. Maybe he'll take a nap. I didn't notice a thing. No matter how my day has been I sleep the sleep of the just and innocent almost every night. Maybe once a year I have a night like that for no apparent reason but usually I'm out light a light. It's a gift. No, really, it is a gift.
May 19--Winslow Homer, Fishing Boats, Key West. The sun cooked the air, the sea added the salt, and Jeremiah stood on the deck watching for fish. He was so still that only the beads of sweat moved on his skin. The wind had dropped and the surface chop laid down so that it looked as if the Lizzie B floated on the hot, humid air. There wasn't even a breeze to set the lines humming and the pennant hung limp at the top of the mast. Fish, he needed fish. Fish to sell to the hotels, fish to sell on the docks, and fish to put on the table. Not bonefish, like the crazy, rich fishermen wanted to fight with on the flats between the Keys, no, he wanted a boat full of grouper or maybe a dorado or two. He needed to catch a hold full of what his daddy called "meat fish" that fill a man's belly and wallet on the same day. The Lizzie B's shadow passed over the white sand bottom and another shadow moved in the opposite direction. There he was. Mister Grouper all ready to give Jeremiah supper and money in his pocket all in one tasty, slow-moving package.
Oh, I love it when there's a painting to prompt my writing instead of an artifact. A painting tells a story (right, Robin?) that I can sink my teeth into. It's a rare artifact that does it for me, but I keep trying, keep plugging away, stacking word upon word, image next to image, to build something that might hang together for more than a paragraph and pulls the reader in. I'm a poor judge of these newborn words and I hope that they amuse or entertain you, or even make you feel better about what you write because they're so sucktastic. Whatever, I'm happy to perform the service and spend these few minutes with you every day. You're welcome, and thanks for showing up.