April 16, 2012

Violently ill two nights in a row. One night it was excess eating at Eileen’s party; last night it was iffy spare ribs. The sick feeling is not gone, but no longer acute. I’m used to restful sweet nights even when my days go awry, so this is spiritually disturbing as well. Circe waits for me to come back from a session with the toilet, then snuggles up to broadcast her medicine.

Maud alerted me at dawn to the presence of our big opossum in the yard. He looked right out there, rooting amid the flowers. He was the completion of the picture. The golden laburnum will be in bloom when I enter the back yard. The purple Dutch iris stand in glory. Took Sunday morning to myself and planted three kinds of mint, eggplant (restored) and zucchini. Ripped out strips of wild honeysuckle and imperial myrtle. I was happy. I guess some people would be amused that the question of whether I should do what makes me happy actually causes confusion and anxiety. Working in the garden made me happy. Going to church would not have done, but it seemed wrong in every possible sense, except in a sense of self-indulgence, for me to have chosen as I did. Of course, everything that becomes a burden was once a delight, and one holds on meaning to honor a one-time glory, or in the hope that lightning might strike again. What would my life have been like if I had done what I wanted to do rather than what I thought I should? Impossible to tell, ruinous to think long upon.

Maybe I should go to church only when God and I are on speaking terms.

The yard’s drama is a pair of mockingbird tormenting a crow. I throw scraps out for the crow, and it must approach sideways to escape the attention of the territorial mockers. The male scolds me, too, but I’m not as easily started as the crow, and he gives up after a while. I think they must have a nest in the rose brambles on the front terrace. That their exertions call attention to this probably does not occur to them.

The Durango Arts Center chooses Alfie and Greta and Conversation Involving Doppler the Cat for performance at their one-act festival on May 18. There had been a theme– animals?– but I forget what the theme was. One hundred thirty entries– two of mine got in. I am happy. I weigh the possibility of a flight to Durango.

A man is working at Carolyn’s. The cats watch him with the same concentration they employ for the opossum.