I’m a little late in writing this week, not because of procrastination, but due to flood and flea control taking up so much time away from writing. And when I did write, what came out looked more like part of some story, not something for this newsletter at all. So that’s in the bin marked “saved for later” along with all the other fragments waiting for their right place.
Last few days have involved washing clothes, bedding, clothes, bedding, floors, bedding, repeat. Freezing cushions. Vacuuming carpets, floors. Sending the old infested cloth couch to the bin, ordering a new one. Vacuum, wash, repeat. We were just scratching our rashes, welts, and bites, looking at skin rash info online, until the fleas showed themselves. Now, our dog B is 3 years old and this is the very first flea infestation. We were lulled into a false sense of security. “It can’t happen here.” Well, it can and it did. Operation Death to Fleas has been mobilized and is currently in progress.
But wait, there’s more. A friend’s storage unit fell victim to a flash flood, and I have her keys while she’s in Europe. Neighbours brought most of the soggy stuff upstairs and I laid it all out to dry on every horizontal surface in her condo. So this week: flood and pestilence with the week’s fitting end at the full moon on Friday the 13th.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have time to write, but the time I had didn’t let me open to the flow. I need that to let the writing happen as it should. Desperate for relief from the pressures of the physical world, I went too far into fantasy, writing something maybe interesting but not exactly right this time. For now it will remain cloaked. I recognize that some calibrations are needed. Sometimes I’m just rambling around the big mansion of the mind with its vast gardens, amazing location, cosmic stars at night, creepy basement, root cellar, and time-travel elevator. My notes from this place don’t all have to be sent over to you, and some I never keep for myself either. We’ve all seen that note left on the desk beside the murdered man, “The man that did it was..///” and the line drags off the page. His hand dropped the pen and his head hit the green edge of the blotter. You see!!!??? that’s what I’m talking about. If there are too many lateral non sequiturs nothing will mean anything to you, or to me. So it’s best that I sign off before I waste more of your precious time. Time you have spent opening this email, time you have spent reading this, hoping for something that will be good, or interesting, or provocative, or at least … something. Instead, this week you have received the note with the diagonal line that goes off the page.
I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do. At least I’m putting this message out to you within the week, as promised! And please stay with me, dear subscriber, next week will more than make up for this.