I try. I really do. I mean, I even make lists now about what needs to be done and how long it will take and approximately when I’ll do it. Like, today, I have to put together the patio furniture, dig a hole for my peach tree, prep the ground for an asparagus bed, masturbate, wash all those damned dishes, and get some radiator paint. Well, except for the masturbation. That’s not actually on my list, because that would be weird.
I’ve been sitting here for two hours now, at my back porch desk, watching my two remaining hens cluck and peck around me like puppies, imagining the growing roots in the darkness of the soil in the garden, figuring out where I’ll plant the figs…and ordering Doc Martens and maybe playing around with some nonograms.
It can’t all be beautiful, some of it is mundane, the ordinary stuff we do when we have a few minutes to kill, or want to hide for a minute from our brains, or from a family member. Even here, I see the header is still about autism, though I thought I’d changed it, so I go off on a hunt for images.
What do I want? I love sea creatures. Let’s see…no, no. How about an old Naval tattoo, like a swallow holding a Hold Fast banner (which will shortly be tattooed on my arm), then suddenly I realize I’ve done it again, where I get lost wandering around the interwebz.
The problem is, I can’t just close the machine. Even when I float around life, haunting my house like a fairy cloud with little substance, I move from one room to another to another and think, maybe I was supposed to be doing something?
I only realize my mistake when the smoke from the pot of burning pasta (the SECOND pot of burning pasta, to be honest) alerts me.
We can’t all be perfect. We can’t even all be adequate, except that we are. We are.