We're beginning to plan our garden, and it's pretty exciting. We had to stop composting for a bit, which I haven't been too happy with, even having a garbage disposal... we have no wooded area to just freely work with, and have to build an enclosure here. It's not difficult; just waiting for warmer days more consistently. We also plan to put at least two rain barrels at the foot of gutters to use for watering the veggies. A cherry tree is in the plans too-- and we'll finally plant the placenta (sorry if that detail freaks anyone out. I get that it was an act most don't make, saving it... but it honestly seemed weird to me to dispose of it, and unlike what others have said about it, I don't find the thing gross. It just is-- and honestly, given what it did, it's kind of fascinating. We both felt that way about it.). A cherry tree will be both a pretty and useful investment-- a nice tree for the kiddo to claim as her own. I look forward to putting in some berry bushes at some point too-- although maybe not this year: a bit at a time. I definitely will expand the strawberry planting too: we have only a very few plants, and have almost never gotten any fruit worth mentioning. We need to get the first few raised beds in quite soon, so I can plant the early crops--peas, cabbage, kale, lettuce. This is going to be so fun: finally having some earth to work for real.
Basically, spring is all I think about.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
I'm Brave, Bitches. Brave. (A Prose Poem)
I wrote a piece of self-pitying shit earlier today, yet I saved it. It says some horrible things about the darkest parts of me. But I saved it.
I'm not really sure what that says about me. I still have, as I always did, the cathartic urge to write about the worst of what I think. The stuff most people-- please Goddess, tell me everyone is that f'ed up underneath it all--think and feel but prefer never to admit to themselves. The stuff that made Freud, half-cocked and a bit neurotic himself, at least in the same sector of universe in which psychological reality abides. So many of us repress emotions and truths from ourselves. How else would we cope with being the foul, shitting thing we are.... unless we put certain feelings in boxes, as curiousities to visit now and then under a haze which makes us recognize them vaguely only if we see a similar trait in another? And likely we'll hate this other person, because though we recognize that trait that we abhor, it is simply something which it is to us thatwe'd be capable of ourselves but for something. Courage, perhaps. Conscience or guilt, maybe. Honor... nay, arrogance. Peut-etre, honor. I forgive everyone but myself, as always. Give myself no gifts. But, I own my shit. And that is brave, bitches. It's brave.
The only screwed up thing is that I feel the need to share these things. Be glad this--this rambling pile of pseduo-intellectual, self-aggrandizing drivel--is the one I actually chose to share. I had the nerve to regret a fork in the road at age 16 today, and to pity myself for it. This is charming by comparison.
I'm not really sure what that says about me. I still have, as I always did, the cathartic urge to write about the worst of what I think. The stuff most people-- please Goddess, tell me everyone is that f'ed up underneath it all--think and feel but prefer never to admit to themselves. The stuff that made Freud, half-cocked and a bit neurotic himself, at least in the same sector of universe in which psychological reality abides. So many of us repress emotions and truths from ourselves. How else would we cope with being the foul, shitting thing we are.... unless we put certain feelings in boxes, as curiousities to visit now and then under a haze which makes us recognize them vaguely only if we see a similar trait in another? And likely we'll hate this other person, because though we recognize that trait that we abhor, it is simply something which it is to us thatwe'd be capable of ourselves but for something. Courage, perhaps. Conscience or guilt, maybe. Honor... nay, arrogance. Peut-etre, honor. I forgive everyone but myself, as always. Give myself no gifts. But, I own my shit. And that is brave, bitches. It's brave.
The only screwed up thing is that I feel the need to share these things. Be glad this--this rambling pile of pseduo-intellectual, self-aggrandizing drivel--is the one I actually chose to share. I had the nerve to regret a fork in the road at age 16 today, and to pity myself for it. This is charming by comparison.
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