Trudging

I don’t have much to say here these days. Nobody wants to hear me sob over the death of my idol. I can’t listen to his album all the way through. One video clip does me in. It’s crazy but it’s real. Maybe it’s my age and the fact that annihilation, mortality is on my mind more often than its not. I spend too much time thinking about how death is not really a big deal for the dead but for those left behind. Things keep marching on without you but you aren’t here to worry about that. That’s for others. The living get stuck with all the grief.

So, I’m doing. I’m making a quilt – really a fabric art hanging (though “art” might be a stretch) made from all my old Bowie t-shirts. I’m getting close to finishing and I’ve decided it will hang from the problematic wall in my bedroom. The wall that is still red because I just haven’t gotten around to painting it to match the rest of the room yet. I’ve got photographs up there now but I’ve never been satisfied with the result. So, it’s been in a state of “what the fuck” for over a year now.

But with the quilt, my remembrance of an amazing one-of-a-kind life who meant so much to me, I will have completed the room. Still need to paint the wall but I’ve got a reason to get to it now. I’ll set up the photographs elsewhere and pin them up, clothesline style, on twine using clothespins I’ve decorated. I’m crafty these days.

Some of that is because of the idle months of winter. Two snow falls and too much rain. Way too cold. I can’t do a thing in the garden yet, so I make little shrinky dink things and draw on clothespins and sew a quilt in my most inept way. I take photographs and post them on instagram. It’s a thing to do.

February is almost over, thank goodness. It’s not a completely terrible month but it is the depth of winter. It is the midpoint between the holiday busyness and spring busyness where there is only the worse kind of everyday busyness that seems interminable. The snow kept us home just long enough. The tornado missed us. The rain did not. The yard is a bog that has not flushed out the voles or kept the stink bugs away. The days good enough to walk in have been few and far between. I’m trying to unfatten myself with exercise and less eating but I can’t say I’ve been 100% successful. It is what it is. That is February.

I’m hoping for a decent weekend where I can begin to construct a new vegetable bed out of three old ones. I really need to start digging. I need to do SOMETHING. Apart from all the something I’m already doing. It’s just not the something I want to be doing. I’ve ordered seeds and seed potatoes and fertilizers. I’ll buy my plants locally this year. We’ll see if it makes a difference.

Probably won’t. A happy plant is a happy plant no matter where it comes from. I hope I can grow happy plants this year that won’t be destroyed by rogue groundhogs and insects and sudden bad weather. Those things never say thank you like I do. Thank you for this amazing tomato. Thank you for these basil leaves. You smell amazing. You taste divine.

It’s almost time. It’s hard to wait. In a season of death, it’s hard to wait for life again.

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