Digging in the Dirt

In between showers there are patches of brightest sunlight, I shade my eyes, I put on sunglasses, I am paler than the whispiest ghost. I bask like a grateful lizard in these intermittant patches of sunlight. Portland, the City where magic happens overnight. I went out the other morning (on my way to the ten millionth interview) and a tree in my garden had thrown up some kind of golden spool of blossoms, things that I could have sworn weren't there the day before got busy being fecund and full of color. I remain perplexed. As I navigate this laid out garden gone frankly wild and use what little sense I have left to try and determine flower from weed, succulent from invasive. I like trowels and I am afraid of my lawn mower.

I like to entertain myself when I am in my back yard, as I look about at my competent neighbors, there she goes again, that silly city girl, she just pulled up the iris bulbs, look at her poking her nose in the poison ivy, that's gonna itch. I jest, but only sort of. It's a wonderland of bugs and weeds and worms and all kinds of lovely color.

My parents were in town a week or so ago, the weather proved mild enough for a primer in Emma this is how you mow the lawn, and Emma this pretty thing is actually a nasty weed, and Emma don't pull that up, that is a forget-me-not, Emma this is the poison and this is the hose.... Then I dropped them at the airport and proceded to to be unstrung by the goddamn garden hose, I slaughtered my neighbor's potted plants, managed to spray everything but the fucking dandelions, came in the house certain that I had likely killed every small bird and child within my toxic radius.... Apparently the Gays left me a weed whacker too. It's some sort of contraption that functions with some sort of primitive string. My mother and I were a pair of neandrathals hooting and beating our breasts waiting for it to magically neaten my walk ways. Evidentally you need to plug it in. (secretly I am afraid of losing a digit)

But I like this, the digging in the dirt. I like the costume. You get into your grimies and you put on your gloves (I do not WANT worm parts embedded under my nails) and you dig in the dirt. It's probably primal, and possibly, latently violent, you weed, I shall rip your entrails from my patch of earth. You wrinkle your nose at the earthworm you have just halved and go on about your business. You begin to pay attention growing things, you begin to haunt the nursery, you don't buy anything (because you are poor) and you don't plant anything (because you are poor, and because conventional wisdom dictates that you watch your garden during the first year) I have ambitions for potted tomatoes, and that's about it.

Except for the rest.

I knew this before, but it's only been re-enforced. I don't do well without structure. Six monthes here and more than a month without work I am driving myself underground. I don't reach out very well, I don't want to be a burden, and I am loathe to foist myself on anybody, this can be as much as a disadvantage as it an advantage. Don't get me wrong, I have done all that I am plainly capable of, I am out in the world - mostly. I am only human, and rejection is never pleasant. Let's just say I have become the world's most adept and competent interviewee, to no fucking avail.

That said, I am holding out for good news on Friday, keep your eyes and noses and toes crossed, please, pretty please.