Saturday, April 4, 2020
Routine
When I got sick, I cancelled the maids, of course. I don't know when they will come back. So I am left to clean my house on my own. I have found out that I am a human pig. I try to clean, but when I finish, things look just as bad or worse than they did before. I am going to have to try harder. When I had the studio, I cleaned well. It was a place where I made messes, but I was unafraid to move things and clean up spills and sticky puddles made from the various experiments I would try. I would paint walls quickly and without fear. And those skills translated into being a better cleaner at home. But it has been years now--five!--since I had the studio. I have lost my nerve. I clean in my pre-studio way, timidly, trying not to disturb things, moving them slightly simply cleaning around them.
I am going to have to strip every surface and really go after things--counters, table tops, floors. There can be no half measures.
I will do it soon. Yes, as soon as I am overtaken by some inspirational energy. I am just waiting for it to feel right.
Meanwhile, I sit. And I sleep. I've never slept so much in my life. And as I've mentioned many times, I have become slow. Even on my walks. I should time them. I'm sure my pace has slowed.
I read and write in the mornings while I drink a pot of coffee. Then I exercise and take a long walk. And I shower. I eat twice a day, once around noon and again around six. Lunch is usually leftovers or something I can make quickly. It is usually accompanied by "a glass" of wine. And then, most days, I am sleepy and take a nap. I usually wake up around 3:30 and do some household chores or set to organizing my photo files which is going to take apparently thousands of hours, so much so that I get daunted. Happy hour seems to have moved up a bit. A first cocktail and some texting, and then a walk to the lake. I am home by six to start dinner and watch "The Trump Show." I clean up, write some more, then settle in around eight or eight-thirty to watch something on t.v. Many nights is is just a menagerie of YouTube things. I'm usually off to bed by ten. I've taken to using a very expensive, high concentrate, organic CBD oil before bed, and I have been sleeping well through the night. I don't know if it is the oil or not, but I am afraid to not take it in order to tell. I usually wake at six and begin the cycle again.
There are some exceptions to this. After my quarantine, I began going over in the late afternoon and having happy hour with my mother sitting in lawn chairs about twelve feet apart, but I am not going every day now. We are in agreement on this. We have each developed our own lazy routine. I write her and call her and FaceTime with her throughout the day. We are both getting used to being alone.
My wardrobe consists of cotton shorts and a drawer full of v-neck white t-shirts that Ili bought me after the accident. They were the easiest thing for me to put on. They still are. I have worn nothing else during Corona time.
I have decided, however, to take my camera with me when I walk. The light here is spectacular this time of year. I feel it wasted, really. Now when I walk, I photograph the light. I photograph the most mundane of things. It is good training, good practice. Above I've posted something that reminds me of Monet's waterlilies. This is with a morning light. I am east looking west. The lilies are dappled with the light falling through the branches of the cypress trees that line the lake. I've been to Monet's famous pond. I like mine as well.
I am late today. It is Saturday. Does that mean anything to the housebound? It must. The word "Saturday" conjures up all the old feelings of childhood, the morning cartoons, playing with friends, perhaps a movie or a viewing of Shock Theater horror movies in the afternoon. It meant freedom.
For those of us who lived pre-pandemic, it will always be suggestive.
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ReplyDeleteI have left this poem - many places - here - there. But sometimes it just soothes me - to read it again. and again.
A Ritual to Read to Each Other
BY WILLIAM E. STAFFORD
If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dike.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
The dogs are whining at my feet. It is raw. Misting drizzle. A gray sweater pulled over the yard. 42 degrees. I must go out tho. I feel oddly today. Disconnected. Untethered. I'd love a good grounding with another human being - in a warm and rumpled bed. Not just cuddling tho as you mentioned the other day - but some serious fucking to feel alive and then again - after a nap - again - will all tenderness.
Sigh. Suggestive enough?
Is it okay to say that here?
That you wanna fuck? Sure, you can say that. It is the other stuff that's dangerous.
ReplyDeleteStill, though, I'm a cuddler.