For fifteen minutes I have sat in my thrift store chair (that I still haven’t recovered–it is, as ever, a horrific faded pink with out of fashion stripes, and it has a twin sister to double the grisly impact)— fifteen minutest in this chair, straining my brain to think of how to start this entry, and how on earth to justify its title. And its picture. And its theme song. I feel them all–the title, the song, the picture—they are a deep gut feeling, a basement feeling– even, perhaps… a final straw. How do I explain this?
Maurya has a party in the house, and her younger siblings have cousins over. I don’t want corn chips scattered from the front door through all the hallways in my house, but the reality is, I do. Plus four little girls parading up and down stairs in princess dresses (that means that the little girls bedroom will be knee deep in all the clothes they’ve ever owned or ever will own). Wait, no, three girls in princess attire; I just spotted Nora rounding the corner of the house in nothing but a leotard. And now a neighbor girl rings the doorbell and runs through my flowerbeds-in-embryo to hide. Like I can’t see her crouching just beneath the living room window.
I’m squinting. I should have my glasses on, but I don’t. I don’t want to need them. I don’t want my eyes or any other part of me to age, to gradually diminish. But the reality is, I need glasses. They make me look like an owl–so not sexy. Another reality is that Frank is out of town, and of all the company laughing and wrestling and singing and eating in my house, none of them are for me. So why should I care if I have owl eyes? Wouldn’t it be nice to know whether or not that’s really three e’s I’m seeing?
I painted yesterday (I’ve been trying to paint every minute that I can–even wearing my glasses as needed), and as I put my second painting on the counter to dry (I don’t think I’ve ever done two paintings in one day before), I couldn’t quite believe my good fortune.. La-a! I really liked both paintings. Could it be possible that at last, I have arrived? That I am a for real artist? That after twelve years of sporadic attempts riddled with error, I’ve finally figured out some of the minor mysteries of oil painting? I was ecstatic with the notion. But today in my studio, reality hit with the jarring sound of squealing girls. After sitting (like I’m sitting now) numb and uninspired for a precious half-hour, I struggled with and abandoned an idea I’d embraced on a more optimistic day. Three sketch attempts. Three plunges into forced un-inhibition. I even tried turning the board upside down. By the time I’d thought of the word un-inhibition, I knew further painting today was futile. I’ll get back to that idea another day. Next month. It’s ok.
Furthermore. I must admit that manure is disgusting, and that it is impossible to herd cats. Stay with me now. I’ve been glorifying and idealizing manure for months, hoping that it will be my soil’s salvation. I have two largish piles of horse leavings hoarded in the back yard, and a wheelbarrow of it in the composter. I’ve enlisted my kids in helping me mulch my newly planted trees and shrubs and perennials with it, dreaming of eventual horticultural profusion. Meanwhile, I’ve enjoyed my distant relationship with Larry and Alice, the cats. Let them out of the garage in the morning to fight their heroic battles with the neighborhood mice while I gardened. Sometimes they’d rub against my leg, which is so charming, and I’d pick them up and pet them and we’d all luxuriate in their purrs. No cat hair in the house. No cat scratches in the house. Just National Geographic moments outside (of the feline sort) to entertain us all, and occasional cat cuddling.
But (and I’m sure the reader is way ahead of me here) it turns out that manure is (after all) manure, and my kitties’ outdoor frolicking isn’t benign. The manure is a breeding ground for awful things like horsefly maggots (I uncovered a nest when I was putting un-composted manure around a boxwood) and wolf spiders. Yesterday I faced mutiny from Ezra and Maurya. They couldn’t stomach their chance encounters with spiders, and begged to be let off mulch duty forever. I was ok with the spiders (though the sight of one darting from shadow to shadow is always a little disconcerting); it was the maggots that grossed me out. And to clinch it all, one of my neighbors mustered up her courage and tapped quietly on my door, to inform me of the damage my cats were inflicting on her property. While she doesn’t take their using her flowerbeds as a litterbox lightly, her main complaint was that Larry had murdered a chicken that had escaped the coop. Plus, both Larry and Alice were using her new trees as scratching posts. I felt terrible on all counts, even on the flowerbeds-as-litterbox one (reality: horse manure is one thing, cat poop quite another). Frank said, well, then let’s put them down. Meisha cried.
For now, the kitties stay in the garage. Meisha takes them out to play in the sun under her watchful eye a couple of times a day. And I will soon have to decide whether we’ll find a new home for them, or whether we’ll declaw them and let them inside. Because for some reason, I have the final say. It’s crazy. What do I know? I hoard horse poop.
And at last, the party is over. It is late. I have a headache from squinting, and from the noise. I’m afraid to look in the kitchen (though at this point, without my glasses, the scene might be neutral). I’ll ask Maurya to tuck Nora in bed, so I don’t have to face the little girls bedroom. I won’t think too hard about tomorrow (and that weak reference to Scarlett O’Hara is as come-hither as I can get right now). I’m tired of spreading manure around my plants; I’m tired of planting plants, I’m tired of painting, I’m even tired of writing this. And so, I’ve kissed the kids goodnight from this faded pink chair. I’ll wash the paint brushes I’ve left in thinner, tuck myself in, and dream Chagall/Van Gogh dreams. Really, it’s not so bad, is it?
