I'm flogging my blogging, my audience is halved, the vultures' red faces are circling my sentences, I'm whirling and swirling down into the dell, the dell of the unfashionability of being well.
When I was sick I blogged more, and the interest in aberrations always exceeds interest in normalstances, so I quit blogging so often and jackdawed into health, nay, brayed into being my being again, and now I'm busy with real life, such as it is, with volunteering, writing, gardening, playing music, dealing with lawyers, landlords, disability, making friends, capturing feral cats in traps, going for hikes, rarely watching TV, reading good books, from Shakespeare to Martin Rees on cosmology and Paul Tournier on personhood, planning a men's retreat, trying to find a way to visit my grandson in view of his recalcitrant and immature father, living in pain, hanging upside down in an anti-gravity machine to ease my pain, though I still take meds for it.
I'm taking meds for my bipolar illness as well, of course, four of them, and two for pain and one for blood pressure, though my doctor wants me to consider a cholesterol-lowering agent to which he just had a reaction that almost crippled him, causing muscle destruction, myonecrosis.
Lipitor, Superstar, do you really think you're who they say you are?
Like I need another medication with my liver already overloaded with seven not to mention what I might smoke or imbibe on occasion if occasion calls for it, though not fessing up to any recreational proclivities necessarily, only reserving the possibility on occasion should occasion warrant it, and I'll warrant that won't be a bench warrant from a warrant officer who lives in a warren and wars with other warrens.
Haven't seen a good butt shot of Serena Williams at Wimbledon yet, waiting for it still. That woman is such an Amazon, I want a whip and a leopardskin loin cloth. My dear wife actually sent me a picture of Serena once, knowing my preferences, and here it is:
In June nine magazines took my poetry, two for features. I'll post some links when they're up, so I always say, though I sometimes forget.
I got rejections, too.
Getting ready to rototill my lawn for next year's larger garden; may still be able to grow a cold crop or two, like broccoli, before this year is out. Cabbage works, maybe not to late for peas or brussel sprouts.
My flower garden is doing well, unfortunately no pictures. Need to borrow Kathleen's camera.
How I do blather on!
I sincerely apologize if I have said nothing of merit or interest in today's post. Right now I'm rehearsing in my mind a poem to encompass my visit to my friend's property, where we assessed wildfire risk and sat in the RV parked on the property. My friend offered me a five-year-old can of Olympia beer he found in the forest and had left in the fridge. Naturally I drank it. "It's the water."
How to put that in a poem with the wildfires and the shotgun and the coffee we forgot and the ancient tractor half restored and the beautiful Derringer he showed me with four shots, I dunno. Usually starts with a first line:
"Inside an old RV"
Gotta put some beer out in pans to drown the snails. Just saw my first one last night but their evidence is in the big bites in the leaves of my dahlia.
Gotta stop sitting and typing, my back hurts too much.
Kilobunnies to all,