Awake

Oh look! A 3am post (at least it'll likely be 3am by the time I stop writing, it's 2:30 now. I seem to write in hour chunks but I'm gonna cut it short if possible). What does this mean? Why it means that I'm awake, of course, and just like at 7 or 8 am when I'm posting it means that perhaps no one else in the entire world is awake to talk to.

You know that feeling.

And I seem to have this incredible need for talk lately. You see how much I've been posting; I get together with people and I talk and talk-- it just doesn't seem to be enough. I suppose I'm in the space where I want to lie awake with someone in the livingroom talking through the night until we turn to watching the sun rise. It's been a long time since I've done that. Likely spending a little more time being me and a little less time running around doing things will help, as will being moved-- when we finally are. I'm too busy being a grown-up right now for it anyhow.

You know, tonight I went to bed with Angus and it felt _so good_-- his back was a warm curve, he had this beautiful solidity-- and I realised that whatever is going on with me, part of it is discovering just what's going on with all this-- thinking about that time with Kynnin and signing a lease and just, this is some level of commitment that is saying 'I want to continue' and not just 'I don't want to stop yet'. And so of course I want to talk about _that_ but I can only inflict so many hours of conversation on Angus because it's not his bag.

I wish Paul were here.

I wish I wasn't so busy.

Okay, Greenie, life will be measurably better if you go to sleep now and worry about it in the morning. Get yourself some water. Angus will half-wake-up and put his arm around you. It'll be okay.

And She Waiting

Always I have been afraid
of this moment:
of the return to love
with perspective.

I see these breasts
with the others.
I touch this mouth
and the others.
I command this heart
as the others.
I know exactly
what to say.

Innocence has gone
out of me.
The song.
The song, suddenly,
has gone out
of me.

Jack Gilbert

- from Monolithos: poems, 1962 and 1982

Suitable Work

I come home from the meeting with my gear in tow. I open the backpack, take out my binder. Tax forms, route sheet, notes on Oakridge... pathology sheets. I start to skim these, plant pathology is always interesting to me. It starts: Species: Bamboo Palm. Under watering: yellow bottom leaf wilts. Over watering: grey-green leaf.

I physically flinch. Over-watering a bamboo palm is terrible. That colour...

I may not be made for this job-- it may not be edibles, or permaculture --but it sure is right up my alley.