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I am having odd chest-cold symptoms-- my trachea has that almost itchy-tight squeezed feeling I remember from when I was little and had asthma, and I have that very tight, unproductive cough in response to the unpleasant tickle in my chest. But it feels very localized, kind of a tight knot just at the point where my trachea branches-- inasmuch as I can pinpoint anything inside my chest cavity, of course; naturally it's half hypochondria, but it's very annoying, and of late when I breathe it squeaks like my father's wheezes when he's bad.
So it's annoying, and has been making me prone to self-pitying loginess, but for the most part I must admit I don't feel bad at all. The bleeding is less ridiculous, as well. I am glad I worked in the Club yesterday, though, just because I couldn't have dealt with that and also with closing Torture Bar. Ugh.
I was good today, and useful. I am feeling a bit of a failure as far as the garden is concerned: ( shames and triumphs in the garden )
Am I really still such a short-timer in my own life?
But anyhow, I ought to do a picture post sometime soon. My yard is really very pretty, although as I look at the neighborhood around me I notice that my idea of what's pretty is a great deal more raggedy, disorganized, haphazard, wild, and overgrown than anyone else's. But I like it when things are just a little bit overwhelming and overflowing and not quite precisely where they look like they were supposed to stay. The grass is a bit long now, and some of it's actually going to seed a little, and I lay in the hammock with the tall seed fronds tickling my fat thighs through the rope mesh, and sighed because it seemed just heavenly. When I was little my dad would sometimes cut the grass with a scythe. We would make tunnels in the long grass that reached above our heads, when I was very small. We never wore shoes, nor pants neither half the time, and the dandelions left sticky bitter-tasting stains on our hands, and a single tasseled strand of grass was a magic wand to tease a cat with, and then as the sun went in the fireflies would come out of the overgrown places, out of the cornfields and the berry bushes and the woods. They don't live in lawns and groomed places; they only live in the tall wild places where they can hide all day.
My neighborhood is not the kind of place fireflies live. I have not seen any since I moved to Buffalo. And my tiny yard is not going to provide them with a habitat. I should probably mow the lawn tomorrow or Mrs. Bob will call the health inspector again.
So it's annoying, and has been making me prone to self-pitying loginess, but for the most part I must admit I don't feel bad at all. The bleeding is less ridiculous, as well. I am glad I worked in the Club yesterday, though, just because I couldn't have dealt with that and also with closing Torture Bar. Ugh.
I was good today, and useful. I am feeling a bit of a failure as far as the garden is concerned: ( shames and triumphs in the garden )
Am I really still such a short-timer in my own life?
But anyhow, I ought to do a picture post sometime soon. My yard is really very pretty, although as I look at the neighborhood around me I notice that my idea of what's pretty is a great deal more raggedy, disorganized, haphazard, wild, and overgrown than anyone else's. But I like it when things are just a little bit overwhelming and overflowing and not quite precisely where they look like they were supposed to stay. The grass is a bit long now, and some of it's actually going to seed a little, and I lay in the hammock with the tall seed fronds tickling my fat thighs through the rope mesh, and sighed because it seemed just heavenly. When I was little my dad would sometimes cut the grass with a scythe. We would make tunnels in the long grass that reached above our heads, when I was very small. We never wore shoes, nor pants neither half the time, and the dandelions left sticky bitter-tasting stains on our hands, and a single tasseled strand of grass was a magic wand to tease a cat with, and then as the sun went in the fireflies would come out of the overgrown places, out of the cornfields and the berry bushes and the woods. They don't live in lawns and groomed places; they only live in the tall wild places where they can hide all day.
My neighborhood is not the kind of place fireflies live. I have not seen any since I moved to Buffalo. And my tiny yard is not going to provide them with a habitat. I should probably mow the lawn tomorrow or Mrs. Bob will call the health inspector again.
