This is the rose I planted last year in the front where the hydrangeas that moved to the side used to be. The blossoms are so tiny and yet perfect. I can’t stand it.
It’s been raining all week on and off, but in a concerning turn of events, the ground is still hard enough for the dog and me to walk. Aprils are usually too muddy for much good walking. Not so this April. But anyway, while coming back through the yard, I noticed this. In the middle of the yard. It looks like the Butcher hit it with the lawn mower once, but is that not an iris?
I thought irises only propagated from their rhizome. And yet, here’s this iris, far from all the other irises in the neighborhood, appearing here for the first time in the years we’ve lived here.
How is it here? How are any of us here, really?
So, I found my septic tank. It was the one grassy spot in an otherwise snow-covered landscape. This morning, the dog and I tried to go for a walk (we’ve been desperate), but it was not really possible, due to the snow and the brittle layer of crunchier snow atop it. Every step was like, “I’m on top of the snow! Crunch. I’ve sunk to my shins in the snow!”
But I also noticed that the snow around the shed was already melted as was a line from the shed to the driveway. So, now I’m wondering if the plumbing in the shed is still hooked up. Neither the Butcher nor I ever remember trying the sink in the shed to see if it still works. We just assumed it was hooked up to the old well and would not.
I haven’t really loved this house. I’ve loved the yard and I’ve loved the fireplace, but there’s not a lot about a ’50s ranch that is endearing to me.
Today, for reasons I can’t talk about in public, I was home doing laundry and the way the light came into the garage and the sound the washing machine made as it chugged to a halt, well, it just seemed like the most beautiful moment I’d ever witnessed.
And I realized that I love this place.
Which, ha ha, probably means it will now fall down on me.
I was walking along, near the treeline when I heard something very near me in the brush followed by menacing snorts. I know it was just a startled deer, which, frankly, made me feel like a submarine, silent and unnoticed in the sea of the night, but whoa, it also scared the shit out of me! My heart started racing, my hands started sweating.
And then I realized that deer was as alarmed as I was. We both had not realized someone else was so close and we both stood there a second, our hearts racing, and then we moved on. It was that moment of shared exhilaration that struck me.
I’m still listening to Limetown, for better or worse. This week’s episode was, indeed, for better or worse. But I was deeply moved by the story of the pig and the guy who learned to telepathically connect with it. The way the pig’s feelings were pure and deep felt true to me, and the value a person might get out of having access to those feelings, also true. As I walked past that deer, snorting in the early morning dark, feeling that kind of primal Oh!, I felt honored and surprised to share that with the deer.
This weekend, someone said to me, “Oh, that’s right. You’re into all that weird occult stuff, aren’t you?” I guess I’ve been into it long enough that it doesn’t seem weird to me anymore. These nine nights, not that there have been nine yet, I’ve been thinking a lot about connections, about the things that tie us together and, more importantly, the ways that crucial ideas get held onto. How the gods stay with us even once we’re monotheistic, almost unrecognizable.
Here, take this for example. Thor is a big guy, with a big beard, straightforward, with useful farm animals for pets. He carries a tool he can use as a weapon. He’s a friend to people and likes them a great deal. We’ve already talked about the ways our modern Santa Claus has some of those same trappings, how Santa seems to take the things we couldn’t leave behind about Odin and Thor and repackages them into something we can keep, even deep into Christianity.
But put Thor in your mind’s eye. Not the Marvel version. The big old brawny Viking. Now, give him some practical work pants, a flannel shirt, a stocking cap. Switch out his hammer for an ax, the goats for an ox. He’s still friendly and helpful to people.
But now he’s Paul Bunyan.
I was so hungry last night that I whooped up some chili and we ate it. Skipping the part where it simmers for a half an hour or an hour or an afternoon or four freezing days or however long.
And it was… interesting. You’d eat a bite and it would be bland. Then another bite would be very salty. Then another that would be a different kind of spicy. And then there’s a big clump of tomato paste.
It was still tasty, but we laughed. It will be delicious tonight.
It’s hot out, even in the mornings when I walk. AT&T is letting the back meadow grow tall and I have to make my way through a border of Queen Anne’s Lace to get to short grass. There’s a warm wind, which I find oppressive and depressing. But, once in a while, coming out of the woods is a cool breeze that hints at the coming fall. Even now, on the hottest day of the year, there’s that hint.
I woke up to the sound of gun fire, five shots in quick succession. There might have been a shot that woke me up. I don’t know. I sat there in the dark waiting for any sign that I needed to do something–crying, screaming, voices of any sort, a car driving off. A little while later, a car honked, but I have no idea if they were connected.
My first thought was, “Well, that has to be the end of the red dog.”
But the Butcher says he doesn’t see anything out there. He also thought, if the shots came that close together, the person might not have been aiming that well.
The whole house smelled like cat pee. I cleaned the litter boxes, which, apparently, hadn’t been cleaned in a thousand years. Now, every part of the house but the living room smells not-like-pee.
The living room, though, is apparently where odors linger on.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, Jim Cooper told a bunch of us that houses built in the 50s in Nashville are poorly insulated because the TVA promised everyone never-ending practically free electricity. Why bother to try to keep the heat in a building when it only costs pennies to heat it?
I live in a 50s ranch. It’s going to be 7 degrees tonight. We’ve already got a space heater in the garage running, because we’re in the middle of a pitched battle called “try to keep the appliances above 32 degrees so that we don’t have to replace them.” Well, not in the middle. That’s the point. While it’s a balmy 27 out, we’re trying to get the garage into the 40s, hoping that will give the heater the headway it needs to keep the garage above freezing all night.
I’m trying not to imagine what our electric bill is going to be. More than pennies, though, most likely.
My next HVAC unit is going to heat the garage. Somehow. Just to keep it at 35 in cases like this.
This week I made chicken noodle casserole instead of tuna noodle casserole and it was a disaster. I’m not sure why, except apparently the chicken available to us up on the north side is just so fucking bland that it manages to suck the flavor out of surrounding food items. I don’t know. I seasoned the crap out of the meat and you’d be eating along, wondering, how is this so bland considering the amount of garlic in here? And then you’d occasionally hit a a pocket of flavor. It was as if all the flavor in the dish would pick a random noodle to cling to like a life raft and you’d hit that one noodle and be like “Ugh, too much, too much!” While all around it, even the other noodles touching it, would be like chewing on air.
I’m writing a story about a creek, well about a dance done in 5/4 taught to a man by some dudes he met near a creek that barely exists anymore. Today I went out to photograph said creek. It did not go as well as I hoped, because my goal was to go out on the bridge, reach the camera over the side of the bridge and… take some pictures. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, but it was. It seemed fine at first, but the longer I stood there, the dizzier I became and the more unable to get off the damn bridge I found myself.
But I’m glad I went, because I put my creek in the story in slightly the wrong spot.
I love the tiny violets in the yard. Walking this morning was brutal. I’m not sure why but I just lumbered around the neighborhood and couldn’t wake up.
But you do some things, even if they suck at the time, because you know it’s going to be better later that you did.
I got no writing done, which is not ideal, but the dog went over to his friends’ house with the Butcher yesterday and, after a couple of hours, demanded to come home, where he just lounged around the house with me. So, that’s nice. I did accidentally throw a cat at him, which was not good, and he barked at the cat, very close to the cat and made his “I could bite you, you know!” faces at her, but he didn’t bite her (of course) and I think the cats are figuring out that he’s just kind of a lug, but harmless.
Oh, yes, here’s how you accidentally throw a cat at a dog. You’re in the kitchen, cutting up meat for your maiden attempt at paprikash, when the cat you thought was safely outside (for this very reason) comes out of nowhere, from some direction behind you, and lands square on the big chunk of as-of-yet not cut up meat. You will, just be instinct, holler, “What the fuck?!” grab the cat, and toss her away from the meat. But, of course, even though this happens in a split second, the dog has decided that, at his new house, it must be customary for everyone to get as close to the meat as possible, so here he comes. And there will be a kind of cat-dog mid-kitchen collision that ends up in barking and hurt feelings.
But, America, I have to still eat that meat! I feel fairly certain that I got all the cat cooties off it, but I’m glad I’m not serving it to guests.
The recipe I found for paprikash is basically an onion, two red peppers, a shit ton of meat, some garlic, and liquid that is beef stock, tomato paste, caraway seeds (I think, some kind of seeds) and all the paprika I had in the house. I added some Worcestershire sauce just because the smell kind of seemed like it needed it. And then the Butcher is going to put the liquid on the meat and veggies and stick it in the oven in a covered casserole dish all afternoon.
I’m already convinced that the next time I make it, I’m not going to want two red peppers, but I’m also already convinced–without yet tasting it–that I will make it again, just because it smells so fantastic.
I’m sure the cat hair and toxoplasmosis will only add to it.
On my walk this morning, I paused in the wettest spot to look at a track. Surrounding it were deer tracks, pretty clearly frozen into the bog. But this almost appeared to be canine. I convinced myself that it might have just been two overlapping deer tracks. But I do wonder. The thing I wonder about is–yes, we have coyotes and yes, that area is pretty soggy when it’s not completely frozen. But how heavy a coyote would we be talking about, to leave that deep an imprint?
I should have taken a picture of that, instead of the weird dirt marbles. But I’m sure it was just a deer track on top of another deer track.
Or, perhaps, a werewolf?
Ha ha ha. Oh, life, of course I would be the first person to be verifiably eaten by a werewolf! My poor mom, so afraid of someone hitting me while I walk in the road in the dark, hits a kid while he’s walking in the road in the dark. Of course I would get eaten by a werewolf! It’s so clear that this is a likely ending to me.
Oh, which reminds me, I got sick before I could do it justice here, but I saw a sketch for the herbal in Project X. In the book, the conceit is that the herbal was put together by Mrs. Overton out at Traveller’s Rest. But it’s just an herbal. There’s nothing really directly about her in the story, even though her presence stretches over the rest of the book.
But this sketch is her. Not in a way anyone working at Traveller’s Rest would recognize. But in a way that I recognized as the author of the book. You look at that picture and you understand something I didn’t put into words about how the woman who would take the first steps towards dealing with the werewolf saw herself. It’s amazing. I told the artist that I want to marry the image. And she’s surrounded by these moons.
Oh, god, everything about it is perfect and occult and weird and lovely.
The artist wants to talk about maybe collaborating on something, just her and me. Yes, in addition to the kids’ book (different artist).
It makes me feel like I might have to reevaluate what I mean by “success” for myself. I had thought that it meant getting a book contract and having a “real” publisher. But I have to tell you, there’s something about having these amazing artists wanting to collaborate that blows my mind. It feels like a way to carve out a happy writing life for myself. But I’ve been so focused on Ben & Sue (still not back from the reader) and then on this short story which is still going hilariously poorly (I’ve got another good beginning from a different perspective, but still not sure that’s the POV that’s right for the story. Yes, pushing 3,000 words, none of which I think are quite right, though getting closer.). I’m not bummed about it, though. This is the kind of story that just has to go like shit at first.
Anyway, my point is that I’ve been focusing on finishing things up for a while now. I haven’t really given any thought to starting new things out. But, man…
Today was not colder than Tuesday morning, at least according to my iPhone, but cold is weird. Tuesday’s walk ended when I came in the house and had breakfast. It went off without a hitch. Today’s cold made my ankle ache. It made my ears want to die. And, even though I’ve been back for a half an hour, I can’t get warm. I feel like my fat is frozen, so my skin is cold from both the outside and the inside. I’m shivering like a fun woman’s sex toy. My legs ache. This, my friends, is bone cold.
And yet, like I said, Tuesday was technically colder. So, that’s weird. Is it somehow slightly more humid, thus giving the cold more stuff in the air to put a chill in and thus put a chill in me? Less humid so that cold puts its icy lips against my skin and just sucks the moisture and thus the heat right out of me?
And the ground in the back yard! It’s weird as fuck. There’s a while section around the tree where the trailer used to be that seems like it’s just turned to marbles. You don’t dare step there because you will slide. So, yes, to go for a walk, you have to navigate the part of my yard that’s all torn up from people moving a camper in and out, then the weird dry lake of mud marbles, then the uneven terrain from the moles and then there’s a brief flat spot before you hit the AT&T yard, which is more uneven terrain, because you’re basically walking on top of a frozen bog.
When I walk, I wish I were a shallow geologist or maybe a hydroengineer who specialized in ground water, because I’d love to understand what the fuck is happening to the dirt around here.
I’m still trying to settle on the problem of how to write here at home when the Butcher is here. And I’m thinking of actually setting up the den like a den. Using it as an office. Which would mean cleaning it out somewhat and putting the drums away. But would also mean, I think, moving the desk so that I could look out the window.
I need to be making a list of thing that need to be done at work, too, when it comes to moving offices. One thing I like about how my office is set up now is that I don’t feel like being at my computer means having my back to the world. But it then means, when people come to talk to me, I have to look at them around my computer. I’d like to find some way to both have my computer facing out and be able to meet with people without barriers between us.
It’s weird to think about how I want to inhabit a space. Mostly, I just let the Butcher figure out how things in a room need to go and settle in to whatever he’s figured out. I guess I could do that for the offices, too. Ha ha.
The car is in the shop today. The problem is expensive.
And the plumber came by the house this afternoon and the two-year-old bullshit thing on top of my water heater is fucked. As is the 60 year old bullshit thing in the crawlspace. And my crawlspace has a glacier. A glacier, people! You want to see a river of ice? Fuck going clear to Canada. Just go stare in my crawlspace.
To get that shit fixed? More than the car.
You know that feeling when you’re just cresting the hill on the roller coaster and your stomach goes up to your throat and your head goaes all woozy and you just have to wait to hit bottom, because there’s no getting out of it?
That’s how I feel.
Here’s how I remember my first (or maybe second) Thai meal. One time I ate Thai with Coble and Sarcastro and another time I ate it with JR and Elias. I just can’t remember which order.
Anyway, I was in Colorado for work. But I was hanging out with JR and Elias in my spare time. We went to this little Thai restaurant and Elias ordered everything hot. I remember the waitress trying to dissuade us. I remember it being delicious. And then I remember my eyes watering and snot involuntarily running down my face and my skin melting off the back of my head and all my whole upper body just disintegrating into a beacon of fire. Viggo Mortensen saw me from a distance and was like “Crap, are they filming another Lord of the Rings without me?” Hunter S. Thompson came by our table. He was riding a cheetah named Betty Grable. The ghost of Jerry Garcia was wearing a tutu and singing “Sugar Magnolia” while my arms turned to jelly. The cooks from the back room came out to laugh at us. I started speaking in tongues. In the language of angels, I predicted the world would turn into a giant bread pudding. How many lifetimes did we sit at that table? How did we get home? Did we really dance down the aisle at someone else’s wedding set-up at the Stanley Hotel or was that part of dinner?
I have no answers.
But I was reminded of that experience a little bit last night, because I made stir-fry for dinner. I marinated the skirt steak in Coke, as is my new favorite trick, and I meant to add a few shakes of red pepper. But my stupid hand shook two or three times before my stupid brain realized that the flap on the red pepper flakes I had open was not the one with three holes for shaking on your pizza but the one with one, big gaping maw, which no one ever needs, ever.
It wasn’t as hot as hallucinatory Thai, by any stretch. But it was hot enough to make my teeth feel strange in my mouth.
It was fantastic. It did make the meat really tender and it mixed really well with the spices and it gave the meat a nice taste that wasn’t too sweet at all. And it did, when I first threw it in the pan, smell a little like a Chinese dish, so that made me wonder how many more Chinese restaurants, on top of the one where the waiter told me, use it as a tenderizing trick.
But I have to say, I was most surprised by how much it seemed to accentuate and compliment the garlic and chili powder. I didn’t use more of those two spices than the cumin or black pepper, but I could really taste them. Not in an overpowering way, but just like something in the Coke really brought those flavors to the forefront.
Anyway, I highly recommend it. The only thing I would warn you about, though is that, if you get a little of the marinade in your pan, it will foam up when it gets hot in a kind of alarming fashion.
The Red-Headed Kid came by yesterday to mow my lawn, after we broke the gas can trying to figure out how to undo the child-proof nozzle. It is indeed child-proof. Good job, gas-can manufacturers. It’s now also broken and useless. Oops. Glad there was another gas can then.
Anyway, he started mowing and I went to work. Then like at 1:30, he called to say he was done mowing and that he’d run the dog out and was now leaving. And I was like “Christ Jesus, did it take him five hours to mow the lawn?” Because I’m not sure I want to spend five hours on a lawnmower should the task ever fall to me.
But I came home and found he’d eaten a pork chop (but not any asparagus, which is his loss), left a bunch of Gatorade in the dining room, watched some TV and, I’m guessing by the towel in the bathroom, taken a shower.
All things that are fine. And he is more than welcome to do any of those things in my house as often as he wants. Hell, especially if he’s going to mow my lawn for nothing.
But it still startled me when I got home, to see all this evidence of someone else, going about his ordinary day in the house, coming and going, and doing things.
It made me miss the Butcher.
But the best part was how happy it made the dog. From her perspective, she had a visitor. The Red-Headed Kid appeared when no one else was home, and hung out with her, and then left. And she was exhausted when I got home, but happy, and that made me happy.