Beltane Waxing Dyan Moon
I’ve never wished for melancholy, it always finds me when it will. I have, however, wished for a descended cloud, not fog, but a stepping off point for paradise, a place to enter the imaginary realm, perhaps withouth need for a return voyage and in its escapist way, its denial of now this wish does not lie far from the darker boundary beyond which melancholy lurks.
These days I’ve had a restless pointlessness, a wandering from project to job to book to t.v. This is, to continue the melancholy/paradise metaphor, a sort of purgatory, neither deep enough for blackness or high enough for light; it is, instead, a descended cloud that is fog, a barrier between purpose and action, no, more, a barrier between heart and purpose.
Slow, again. Like molasses. Also cotton in my ears, dark sunglasses on my eyes. I hear no evil, speak no evil, think no evil. I hear no live, speak no live, think no live. I dangle, neither here nor there.
and surveillance for pests.
planted carrots and beets I didn’t water them in. Probably should have. The potatoes needed mounding and I discovered that the beets and turnips both benefit from mounding too. If a portion of these tuberous vegetables stick up above ground, they turn green and inedible.
This southern gentleman showed up on my tour of Okefeenokee Swamp. He hissed and opened his mouth wide. (Does that mean he’s related to Jesse Helms?) After we moved past him, he moved to another patch of grass and rolled over on his side, happy at having driven away the intruders.