In 17 more days I'll be driving away to The Clearing for a week-long writing workshop. I have no idea what or even if I'll write but I sure am looking forward to a week away from the everyday. I can't wait. This is the first time in a long time that I'll be going without a friend and roomie. I'm still on the fence about whether I'll pony up the extra moolah for a single room but for now it's a moot point since there isn't one available, but I think I might if I have the opportunity. That's what credit cards are for, right?
I was going to trot out that tired old rhyme about today being May 1 and outdoor screwing starting today but I decided I'm way too mature for that sort of foolishness. But then I thought I should lead off with that as a salute to Dad who's the one who told me the thing in the first place. But then I thought that it isn't a very proper way of saluting Dad. But then I thought, why not? So: "Hooray, hooray, the first of May, Outdoor screwing starts today" says Hank. (bring your own blanket)
I really suffered with barometric aches yesterday, so much so that 2 Aleve barely budged them, and that's not fair. I keep myself moving, I walk and do chores and carry things thither and yon. I try not to knit too long before I stretch my shoulders, arms and fingers, and bend my back this way and that to work out kinks. So I spent yesterday achy and pouting, whined a bit too, it didn't help but I felt better about the whole thing. Durwood had the blahs too. We were a fine pair. We usually are. I did get all the feeders and bird houses hung yesterday so the birds can move any anytime. Durwood made birdie juice for the hummingbird feeders but we suspect they won't get here until the honeysuckle blooms and that'll be a while since it doesn't even have leaves yet, but we'll keep the juice out just in case.
May 1--Paul Cezanne, Gardanne. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the tile and stucco buildings of the town stacked together on the hill between the harbor and the fields. Rene stood with his back to the stone wall and watched the goats wrestle over an old jacket lying under the brush. He frowned and shaded his eyes with his hand. If his eyes weren't playing tricks on him there was an arm in the sleeve of the jacket. Perhaps he should go to work in the far vineyard and let some other unlucky villager make the discovery. Maybe a tourist would happen by. No one would suspect a tourist of ending Maurice Grand's miserable life. Dammit, he recognized the denim jacket Maurice always wore without knowing he was doing it. He wasn't a good enough liar to pretend he hadn't seen the body so he turned to walk back down into the village to tell the police what he'd found.
It's a workday. That means I get to go eat while I read the paper, then shower, dress and zoom off to keep the world safe from SCUBA diving. Oh, I need to stop to pick up a tank at Van's and the Mason St. bridge is closed this morning so I'll have to go over Walnut. Good thing I made myself a note, I forget stuff like that all the time and then I'm late and when I'm late is the only time someone's waiting for me when I get there. If I'm early or on time there's no one there and no one for hours. It confuses me how that works, but then I spend a lot of my life confused.