Angela Bocage

A randomish day in May…oh yeah, concussion!

Sooo floaty today…on Monday super clonked my skull on this tree that fell–the one I wrote about, that fell where I had just been but magically didn’t kill me or any of my roses 🙂 but since on Monday I was concentrating on using the string trimmer on all the parts of the yard unreachable by Agnes Mowerhead, kind of forgot just how low the arch made by the fallen tree really was. CLONK! Still experiencing quite the wonderful floatiness and serenity yet tired, but the nausea went away in maybe 24 hours, which was good. And my odd-colored graceling (see book of same name, it is fabulous)  eyes, one blue one green, my partner says, look more different than ever. VERY proud of Robin Black, amazing brilliant compassionate thinking questioning son, for finishing his 4th book of poetry! The first poem, Backstory, blew me away. It may be available from Able & Baker press, but they do fly offa the shelves so I can promise nothing. In other news, the gardening obsession has taken hold pretty good, I am poring over rose cultivars to replace the very few that couldn’t handle winter–though I’m pretty sure it was the big clumsy puppy running over or chewing on some of them that did them in, not so much winter. So many choices regarding mulch, and what do about the old compost and the recent, and what will be the best way to define the borders of beds and paths. That is a connection to the daily world. But in so many ways so distant from…everything. Like looking at earth and everything through a window, not a negative sensation, just a rather misted one. As a young teenager, before my vision was properly corrected and I couldn’t recognize anyone until they were around five feet away, I just had to accept that; called it “fogworld,” LOL. Probably something to do with living  in a very foggy suburb of SF! High school was in Pacifica, a hellish little place that deserved to have a mommy van named after it, where if one day in twenty the sun actually broke through…I’d overwhelmed with panicky guilt or guilty panic, wondering, “what could I possibly do to celebrate this rarity and beauty adequately?” Hee hee, now I would have a snarky answer, but however vitriolic the trappings, the concept would be pretty much just exist, learn, be nice to people and critters–as the old prophet declaimed, just doing “what is good: to act justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly with thy [deity/ies].” But now it’s summer in this astonishing place called Philadelphia, where I never planned to end up, but which is endlessly fascinating, and the rainy days are often almost as beautiful as the sunny ones and I have so many wonderful people and places and pursuits and puppies to be thankful for…when escaping f’in Pacifica woulda been “dayeinu!”


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