I think of myself as a philosophical person, but it occurred to me yesterday evening as I was driving home from work that fantasizing about having machine guns mounted behind my headlights so I could blow all the lousy drivers off the road, is maybe not an indication of my philosophical nature.
Was I always this impatient?
Anyway, it's a nice long drive for thinking--and generally my thoughts are of a more positive nature. The road winds through the pine trees and mountains, and now and again I see deer or a bobcat or a fox--there's a little black mountain goat I see most mornings. It's a good time to unwind, and often I'll sing with whatever is in the CD player (this morning it was Garbage's BLEED LIKE ME--hence the title of today's blog) or work out various plot points on the project of the moment. And on those days that I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, I'll pop an audio book into the player and amuse myself that way. I've heard a lot of good books over the past couple of years--things I might not otherwise have bothered with.
I like this Garbage album. I actually bought it for a song that turns out not to be on the album (further proof that I am not the master of organization that I believe I am). I almost didn't buy the album--the idea of a group named "Garbage" seemed to demonstrate that Trying Too Hard thing that I'm so weary of. But it's not bad. There's a song called "Happy Home" that moves me.
In my happy home I barely breathe
In my lovers arms I find relief
And there's a sky that's changing and a bird that sings
I never once in my wayward life was heading to run out
But then I am in a strange mood these days. It must be the end of summer. I'm an autumn baby, and every autumn I start thinking about reinventing myself...
The focus these days is almost entirely on writing. This month I'm planning to hammer out the partial on a project my agent and I have been kicking around. The interesting thing about this project (nameless for now) is that it is so totally NOT me. It's a challenge to write another person's idea, but it excites me--partly because it is a challenge, and partly because I find it very freeing to work outside of my own head. I sketched out a few pages last month, and glancing over them, they look like they have potential, so I'm forging on. Three chapters, that's the goal.
And it's time to think about winding up the Mary Kelly serial.
And, and, and... There's always got to be some project, the next goal. It's getting to the point where I'm trying to schedule my spontaneous outbursts.
One thing for sure, my sadly neglected garden is going to get some quality time. I walked out there last night and nearly cried. Even the lavender is dying. I mean, lavender is practically indestructible. There's not a rose on a bush--the only thing thriving are the weeds. Especially sad when I think how beautiful everything was just two months ago before this hellish heat hit.
The thing about a garden is that it teaches patience--it demands it. And it rewards hard work. It's so amazing what a little sweat and a lot of fertilizer can do--beautiful to look at, of course, but there's also the scent and texture of flowers and herbs and the other plants. It's almost narcotic. Anyway, maybe because it's so physical and so different from writing, but I find it relaxing to snip and prune and dig and plant and water. All of it. I enjoy all of it. Okay, I'm not crazy about bees or worms, but they are necessary, so I try to keep the squeaks of dismay to a minimum.
One day I'll tell you about my crazy little hummingbirds and the doves that wake me on Saturday mornings...