Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Manual Labor and other fun weekend activities Spent the weekend laboring in the fields of the Lord - or, rather, the backyard of the mother. I'm holding my thirtieth birthday party at her house, because she's got the deck and the pool and the pond and the barbeque grill, but as of Saturday, the big ugly tarp was still over the pool, and there was a distressing amount of dog poop in the yard, neither of which were conducive to a good party atmosphere. So Bemo and I went and did some healthy and muscle-soreness-inducing duty, peeling the very heavy tarp up and off and over the fence on one side of the house, weeding, raking up dog poop, and washing some of the greeny stain on the concrete that winter and wetness leaves. The party is still distressingly unplanned - I figure I need to start emailing people about what they might like to bring (I may be throwing the party, but potluck makes much better sense), have to figure out what to do about a cake, and I have to make sure everybody has directions. And I guess I have to pick a start time for the thing. Reading DLS's letters, Vol. 1. It kickstarted a whole chain of thought about having such an intimate access to a person - through their essentially personal writing to the people closest to them. Blogging doesn't seem quite the thing, somehow, because there's an essential element of publication to it all, no matter how private we can all pretend it is when you've got a journal that only a handfull of people officialy read. I also look back at a wad of letters I've preserved from my junior year of high school, when my two best friends and I were scattered to the winds: me to the Philippines, SherryDarlin' to New York, and Persia to a small college. Pre-email, and therefore we wrote, and the letters still make me laugh when I reread them, especially their envelopes, which were frequently decorated with quotes and random silliness. It's something that email has made rare and strange. In other news, Bemo's two temp jobs have been turned from two week affairs into two day affairs, due to the positions he was temping for being filled by permanent employees. We continue to chug along, with half our pistons firing, bouts of depression on both sides, and in my case, occasions of irritation where everybody and everything seems contrived to get under my skin and I refuse to be pleased or appeased. We haven't been forced to sell the truck yet, but I have a feeling that it's not far in the future. And in an entirly petty moment, I'm massively ticked off by the fact that I seem to be scooping out a litter box every time I turn around. Off to bed. The exhibit opens this Friday, so I should be too busy to brood. 11:24 p.m. - 2005-06-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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