August 31, 2013

My Syrian friend changes his Facebook photo to a Syrian flag with the words on it, “We Are Ready.”

I read the wrong email and my day is annihilated. I decide on physical labor, and drive to Reems Creek, where I buy ferns and shade flowers and ground cover. I dig up where the tomatoes and the cabbage failed in the rain, and I plant the plants. I dig an expansion of the shade garden, pulling the vines and their roots out by main force, cursing when they resist me, or when I think of what I read in the morning. There was a message that directly contradicted it, but the bad one is the one I dwell on. This is my proof for Satan. I know my attitude is sometimes Satanic, but there is nothing I am able to do about it. That, too, is Satanic.  I feel like a chained dog that howls every time it is struck, and the wicked master decides to strike me until I stop howling. It is not going to work. But the garden looks great, and for once have slavered on enough mosquito repellent. Calm and lovely evening. Last night I sat at the desk by the front door and wrote poetry, and I was happy.

Unearthed a grub almost as big as my hand. Had no idea what it was. I turned away, and when I came back to the dig, it was gone.

Oddly repelled recently by alcohol. Counting that as a blessing, though a curious one.