sunday
Sunday 13 May 2007 | someone left a cookie
Mandarin has posted an insanely cute YouTube video of an itchy pink bunny rabbit; the Brujo went to see The Importance of Being Ernest (”How was it?” “Well—earnest. And a sixty-something woman kept hitting on me. Which was flattering. I think she was worth like seven hundred million dollars.” “You should get her to buy you that house on the river”—one we admired, a compact little 1.75 million pied-à-terre—”and be her boy-toy!” “Yeah, and then you could marry someone wealthy, and we could have an illicit affair.” “That might be kinda hot anyway.”) and has gone for sushi with his Ex; and I’ve been outside, closely shadowed by Pyewacket, planting viola and coriander under the budding grapevine. The earth is cool and damp and loamy. I have packets of bachelor’s button, columbine, echinacea, catnip, thyme, flax, poppy, giant African daisies and something called “old-fashioned garden mixture,” all purchased last year at a discount and then abandoned when I fucked up my job once too often and got fired, Maman died and a strange summer depression coiled me in its pythonic grip. This year, they’re going in the ground. Will they germinate? Will I get to see anything bloom? Sais pas; but it’s definitely therapeutic to lace on sneakers, grab blue paisley cotton gloves and the kneeling pad (usually out from under Pye, who thinks it’s her special royal seat), and crawl around on the ground burying seeds in it.
Yesterday the B. and I hiked up Rio en Medio in search of blooming Pediocactus simpsonii (two of which I found! I did!) and then bolted down just ahead of what we thought would be a bad thunderstorm and which turned out to be Nothing. Though the celerity of our pace completely did me in and has left with me with blisters and sore shins, at one point as I flopped down on a rock to wheeze for breath, my view was undeniably the best in the house:
Not only is a day spent outside a good day; but, to misquote Annie Dillard woefully, a lifetime spent outside is even better. Why am I not a park ranger? Like the main character in Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer (a novel which, since I first picked it up, I’ve been convinced is in part a response to Gene Stratton-Porter; but since no one has actually read Gene Stratton-Porter since 1915 but me, this could very well be wrong).
In addict news, I’ve been non-compliant and have medicated my bipolar ass down to a quarter-tablet of Abilify, which should be 1.25 mg but is probably closer to 1 mg, given how much of each goes up in pale blue powder when I chop ‘em in my handy pill cutter. This is a ridiculous and clearly untherapeutic dosage, but it also seems to be all I can ingest without being so jacked I practically vibrate. I’m never, ever a foot-jiggler (that’s what people who drink coffee do) but on Abilify I’m practically an entire limb-jiggler. The bed shakes at night; and for all the wrong reasons. So having self-parlayed to 1.25 mg Abilify, 6 mg Emsam (because I thought 12 mg might be making the kinesthesia/general jumpiness worse) and the nightly necessity of 3 mg Lunesta, I have…a cocktail that doesn’t make me exactly thrilled, but seems to be working, though maybe in the same way that Britain’s foreign policy does. I love what Abilify does for my brain. Just, why does it also have to make me more twitchy than a bunny with eczema?
And in news of the looming domestic, the Brujo and I trek to Tartarus from May 29–June 3 for house-hunting purposes, although my metaphorical feet at present could not be colder. It’s all nothinggoodcanhappen.com in this brain, let me tell you; but I’m working on it—and so’s he, after our mutual confessiorial of same a few days ago, in which we gropingly discussed trying to know the difference between fear you should honor and fear you should push through. It might help if more friends from Santa Fe could find it in themselves to be happy for us, instead of, upon hearing the news, visibly recoiling and gasping, ashen-faced, “Phoenix?! Are you insane?!“
Now back outside to pull more invasive grass and poke more magic beans in the ground. Maybe one will grow into a heavenward-reaching stalk and yield a castle for the Brujo and me. (Though we’d be more likely to clean it, I suppose, than live in it.)
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You two are going to do just fine.