another day, another rock hunt,
another stone-chipping or boulder-rolling injury,
and another finished paperback.
it's all the same, all the time.
at least, until it's finished, or it changes.
how's that for a profound thought?
'it is until it isn't.'
not quite the heavy-hitting philosophy i'd hoped for.
but i'm alive and well, for now, in the natural world.
i am until i'm not.
an active participant in an stormswept savage gypsy summertime.
a warrior poet in the woodsly goodness.
and that's something, for sure.
there are now whole swaths of mulchable, arable, fertile freshness
taking up the spaces in-between roadway and driveway.
with plants and plinths enough to impress any druid anywhere.
it's all coming together at a cost beyond money:
between tatty-o'zapulating and gloved-up granite grabbing,
my hands are crabbed and cramped,
and indeed, the teeth therein are chipped;
along with the flayed fingertips and the gnarled knucklebones.
my toenails, nightly, have enough dirt under 'em
to grow a whole field of potatoes. probably yams, even.
it takes a good deal of scrubbing to remove the black dirt,
and even then,
my inner black-ness is more than skin deep.
it'll take more than a soapy pumice and loofah combo to change that.
my ankles look like sandblasted beef haunches.
bloody and beat the F* up.
a whole week's worth of work, in improper attire has seen to that;
manly capri pants and boat shoes are NOT work gear.
now i've got some harshed-up lower legs,
raw, and wrecked, and scattered with splinters and shrapnel.
i'm just sayin',
before work, it's work.
during work hours, it's work,
and after work?
then some until-dark-type work.
manliness, in flower garden vs. tourist tattoo shop format-
knicks and scrapes and methodical monologues.
the same, in spite of the wind.
i'm four novels into the 'temeraire' series.
most of y'all would not like 'em.
so far, book five also rocks the party.
more of all this.
up early tea-time, mid-morning gardening,
late-morning errands, work, work, work, until later,
and then eats, gardening, and reading until late.
it's a steady bass-boosted rythym i'm rocking.
drums an' that, ninjas. just like heartbeats.
i am alive.
like i told you.
sweaty, breathless, dirt-dirty, and grit-grimy.
sore, swearing, and cultivating coincidences as well as calamities.
happy accidents, and unhappy on-purposes.
it's ALL really happening.
it's 8-and-a-half in the a.m.,
do you know where your shovel is?
never quiet, never soft.....