where to begin? i have had months and months of extreme fatigue and pain. i mention it by way of explanation for my long absences. i don’t want to jinx myself but the last month has been much better. i make myself get up and push the wheelbarrow. i make myself shovel sand. i reward myself with a 20 minute nap in the afternoon. i drink the root of teasels every day. a bitter that makes me shake like a dog from head to toe when i swallow it. but my tremors and jerking limbs and brain fog have greatly improved. i still transpose words and frequently stutter when i talk and fall of a cliff mid-sentence. but not as much as before. and i can read again! (with great trepidation i began reading a novel last night and nearly finished it in a sitting!) my memory improves too. the first week of teasel made the left half of my head feel like it was on fire. like the paralysis was coming back. but it hasn’t come back. touch wood that it never pays me a visit again.
early in the year i threw handfuls of bird’s eye gilia and baby blue eyes seeds around my dad’s cabin. they are blooming now. very stunted for lack of water. but very beautiful. the pomegranate tree that my father planted the day i was born is covered in red blossoms. there are no flowers on the rosemary. the quaker lady iris did not bloom either. it is entirely too dry hereabouts.
visited my father this evening. he told me that when he was a boy he used to charge two bits to mow a lawn. he lived in a poor neighborhood in richmond peopled with mustache petes and eastern european immigrants of which his stepfather was one. every so often a very flashy midnight blue car would pull up and an equally flashy gangster would emerge. he would offer my dad a silver dollar to wash the car. soon every boy in the neighborhood would come running when they saw the blue car. if four boys washed the car there were four silver dollars. my dad would sometimes sell newspapers all day on a busy intersection and earn three cents a whack. sometimes he’d earn a whole dollar. my grandmother would make horse meat taste like veal. they ate cheapest meat stewed with prunes and lots of polenta. salted carp and bony sturgeon. there were bootleggers in and out. my dad learned to graft fruit trees by watching over his stepfather’s shoulder. one spring day peaches bloomed on apricots and apricots on plum. his stepfather stood in the yard scratching his head. a quick study that old dad of mine.
it seems i’ll be moving back to the land of banana slugs come the autumn. feeling both excited and sad simultaneously. how is that? i am a champion fretter.
searching for information on a particular leek and came upon this. thereafter sung the word “onomasticon” under my breath for days until suddenly it was “onomastodon” which i prefer. i rendered an onomastodon in inky pen in the margin of my shopping list. a quill pen in his trunk. a piece of parchment under a ponderous toe.
wellidy. i am shy of news. and so.