Carolee Bennett –> poet. artist. crankypants.
the title of this post is a quote from my CSA newsletter, roxbury farm week #3. here’s what comes shortly after it: “the statement that farmers are artists resonates with me but it is also not complete. we are also caregivers. our drive is very external; we respond in ways a paramedic works … the moment you put a seed in the ground, the moment you bring an animal into the world, you have made a commitment.” isn’t that beautiful?
i am 24 hours out of my third break-up in as many months, and i am thinking i need to go on my own wild solo hike. it’s not enough to abandon everything you know: you need to make something in its place.
i’ve long said that the glorious cookbooks on my fridge are aspirational. i’m often convinced that the right recipe will change my life, turn me into someone who cooks. i’m a little high on that idea today after eating all day what i cooked last night. as far as i know, i haven’t poisoned myself, and it’s fairly clear: homemade — even my homemade — is simply fresher and more flavorful.
in addition to having some time with the boys this weekend, i had lots of opportunity to enjoy my neighborhood, which hosted two major festivals: saturday’s art on lark (sleepy vendor pictured above) and sunday’s pridefest and parade (photos posted on facebook). i am in love with my apartment, which i call my happy place. and i am in love with the little pocket of downtown albany it crouches inside of.
i won’t be able to see the transit of venus today. even though there are breaks in the clouds, they are too persistent. or i am too impatient.
every horror movie has at least one moment of quiet, a maybe-we-can-let-our-guard-down-now scene, a sunrise that seems to end the carnage. trusting it is always a mistake. it’s temporary. even when the birds start chirping again at the end of the film and children return to the playgrounds, the blood bath’s not over.
sometimes fear is all there is. fear that the new life is too fragile or somehow unsustainable. fear that dirty dishes, unfolded piles of laundry, a messy office and a ransacked closet mean the ex is right: households suffer under my watch. i find myself joking, is it any wonder i can’t keep a husband?