TMI
Friday we dined with friends at a community barbecue where the wind blew up a rain and freezing cold with a slick of wet on the plastic chairs and tables and dripping from the plastic canopies and I paid nine-fifty to lick sweet sauce off of two hunks of charred something, I should've got the chicken. It was good to be out though in the little group in the weird light of evening clouds and shared discomforts making everyone laugh together. At home later I was done in and knew I'd pushed my envelope as far as it would stretch and climbed under blankets not unpleasantly exhausted.
Saturday the computers wouldn't dial in properly--neither laptop nor tower--so no Web access or email. I dusted off the old AOL account and dialed up their long-distance machines and took care of business early on. Midday was all driving, twenty miles here, twenty miles there, and then around to N's place to look for signs of life. He'd phoned three weeks before to tell me he was about to leave on a weekend trip to Washington state, but then he didn't phone to say he'd arrived back safely and then he didn't show up the following weekend on our prearranged tincture-bottling day. I was glad at the time: if anything had happened to him someone surely would have called me, so I wasn't worried. I was feeling low and lying low, trotting around to doctors and such, and, because I'd concocted the tincture with N when I was at my lowest ebb, staggering around the kitchen making jokes to distract from the unkempt rooms and dirty dishes because I didn't have the juice to stand and clean, I fuzzyheaded used the wrong tincture formula on the roots N brought, made a real mess of things, which I realized a few days later when the fog cleared for a moment, and I was mad at myself for not having said right out "I can't do this today; I'm not well enough yet. Let's refrigerate these roots. They'll keep for a while." But I forget to "use all my words" as the shrinks say and I didn't want to let N down, wanted to come through for him, but inevitably I did anyway with my error and wasted heavy precious hard-won plant roots from the top of a mountain and thirty dollars' worth of grain alcohol he bought. So I kept quiet and let him take his time to come around because I was a coward and wouldn't risk facing his disappointment or annoyance with me.
After ten days or so of silence though I thought he might be falling back into cynical ex-boyfriend mode for some reason, and then I didn't want to participate, and still I refrained from checking on him. Into the third week, I was becoming alarmed. I asked around about him and left messages on his machine. I'd put together a stack of magazines with Post-it Notes stuck onto articles I thought he'd enjoy reading and had a bag of cow cookies and loaf of bread in the freezer for him and two books to give him, and I'd even kept a list of news to tell him about when he finally showed up so I wouldn't forget anything.
But he didn't show up, or return calls, so Saturday afternoon I drove around to his place and his truck was gone but his grass all around was shoulder-high right up to his house, which was scary, because he's mister neatness with a Weed-eater, usually. I was getting panicky now and as I drove home I wracked my brain, such as it is, to remember the surnames of his neighbors so I could phone them, but I just couldn't remember any. Back home I left increasingly hysterical messages on his machine, so when he finally did phone me on Saturday night (he'd been away for a few days, I think, camping) I was stretched way too tight and primed to snap. Which I did--but I think justifiably, for he actually had been playing a you-don't-really-care game, waiting me out. But you knew I was ill, I said. He corrected me in a not-nice voice--I was worried, yes, when I thought you might be ill...--like a trusted friend turned twisted fiend, the fine line there, and I'd been fooled again, again. And when he started his familiar "You never act like you want to talk to me anyway when I do call" I just couldn't believe it. "Oh fuck," I said, so disgusted with myself, "I'm glad to know you're alive and well. That's all I needed to know. Now never call me again." Which was dumb, I realized on hanging up, because not calling was what he had been doing.
And I was wracked for a while with hurt and anger and crept up to bed and lay there gasping like a fish on the sand with pounding heart wondering why-what-how he'd turned from seemingly concerned good person to cynical bastard without even speaking to me directly, how you can base behavior on conclusions formed in a vacuum of information. Why was the world so rotten and why does he think I'm lying to him all the time? I didn't get it.
But I put money in an envelope yesterday for his lost tincture investment and a printout of tincturing instructions--the right ones--so he can do it again, correctly, for himself, and when I know he's at work I'll drive the 12 miles around to his place and leave the books and money there--I'm keeping the magazines and cookies!--and then figure out how to introduce myself as participant in a network of community support as opposed to a two-person give-and-take.
Why are we like this? Why?
But then the Lord giveth back in spades, and yesterday morning my landlord phoned me all on his own to say he would come here from the coast in two weeks to rebuild the bridge, and also to arrange to take the well down another 100 feet--he just called without my saying anything and was lucid and forthcoming and sounded so much better than he had the last time we spoke 10 months ago. And even if they don't find more water another 100 feet down at least I'll have a larger holding area and won't run out so easily anymore. Terrific news. Midday my old friend in Sacramento phoned and we commiserated about his sick lost and probably dead kitty he loved and grieved for now.
In the afternoon my brother and I hauled out the irrigation pump and I finally set it up down at the creekside. I waded across to the pasture and wired a long garden hose to point down into the llamas' water trough, and then waded back and started up the pump. Nothing happened but noise, and after a perplexing minute I remembered I had to prime it before it would go, so I fetched the long-snouted watering can from the house and unhooked the hose coupler and funneled creek water down the pipe and tried again. Voila! I can stand on this side now and fill the trough over there. Fernando was there immediately and drank for a long time, lifting his head every few moments to lick his fuzzy soft dripping llama lips to demonstrate how important and good freshness of water is. Today I'll pound in a fencepost on this side to hook the hose to to raise it up out of the creek bed, where it sags, and stabilize everything.
There's much mowing and weed-eating to do here but I think I'll have to pay someone to do it, if I can find a yard person willing to drive back in here.
Anyway Sunday was a fine day, and I talked long with my son Jesse on the phone in the evening until I was out of breath finally, like now, and life had become very good again.
Radio Userland's server was down from late Friday night until yesterday evening so there is a universal gap in the Salon blogs. Everything seems OK now, though. My dial-in is still unstable but we'll get this under control later when I have time for another lengthy session with tech support.
It's overcast, chilly, and wet here today. I wanted to tell you about the night hawks and the excellent old-fashioned shortcake I baked to go with new strawberries and heavy cream (too wrecked to make supper then, so it made a yummy repast on its own, and a good breakfast just now), and also the Rumi documentary I watched, but I wasted your attention instead (as if you'd made it this far) on neurotic relationship travails. I'll fill you in on the pleasanter stuff next time.
11:07:09 AM 
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