. Spinning .

This is another one of my odd discoveries that I seem to be making in this latter part of life, so pass it by if you’ve not the head for it today.

Lying in bed last night, in position on my stomach slightly turned, one arm under the pillows to clutch the top end of the mattress, one set of toes curled over the bottom edge.  Six foot stretch I’m guessing.  Now this is my space, about an eighteen-inch diameter circle, and when I’m standing it is my space here and there, wherever I move around within the giant space of all.

But I’m only five feet tall.  From DaVinci’s (I think–don’t make me look it up now, when I’m off on a flyer like this) estimations, man’s span is approximately his height.  So that gives me a five foot cube of space (my fingertip to fingertip span is almost exactly 60 inches), or 125 cubic feet of space all to myself.  Sometimes we have to share our space, such as when we stand in line to see the DaVinci Code movie or at the deli counter at Eastertime.  But generally, we move in these blocks of space. 

But lying there in the dark, realizing that el esposo is six feet tall (giving him 216 cubic feet of space), I wondered not about my side to side space, but losing the extra space at the top, above my head.  That’s 25 cubic feet of space I just can’t use.  Unless I’m painting on a stepladder, or sometimes I jump up into that space like at the deli counter at Eastertime when they can’t see me because they heap the loaves of bread and strange bottled mustards there. 

Hmmm.  Frugal person that I am, and aside from going back to platform shoes which gave me use of some of that wasted space for a couple years at least, I started reasoning out how I could take advantage of the space above my head and truly lead a fulfilling life of fulfilling my allotment of space. 

Then I fell asleep.

Happy June.

That said, let’s move on to the nitty gritty business end of what the month means. 

Gardening:  All million petunias have been set into soil somewhere or another.  If they don’t like it there, they can die if they’d like.  If I find ’em, I’ll water ’em.  The tomatoes and the peppers are in and probably suffering heatstroke because I didn’t put them in last night but early this morning instead.  Tough.  I’m trying to beat the damn four-inches of rain they’re predicting, and you try to hand-weed and hoe a big garden in under four days.  I’m arguing with myself about whether I should close down the shop and stick the rows of seeds in today because it’ll beat the rain, but then if the rain comes in a downpour, they’ll be either washed away into the surrounding lawn or be too weak to sprout in the mud.  On the other hand, the sooner the better–I’m late already with gardening.  My conflicting arguments give me some idea why nobody is speaking to me anymore–my own lawyer included it seems.  But that’s an old story that doesn’t look like it’ll ever be settled unless I break into the judge’s chambers, sit down, and tell him the horrors of war I’ve encountered with the legal system in the past two years.

Reading:  Almost done with The Heart is a Lonely Hunter–love it.  About to maybe pick up McCarthy again.  Working through Ethics (boy, I’d love to give this book out as Christmas presents!).  Starting Hypertext 3.0 and Patchwork Girl, along with playing with Flash 8.

Writing:  None.  Ditto rewriting, submitting, creating, blah, blah, blah.

Academics:  None.  ‘Cept self-teaching for now.

Computer Work: Fix Spinning now that I messed it up with the books listing.  Need to get back into the control panel of Typepad on this and change fonts etc.  Maybe make a new logo again and change colors.  Complete the networking system of the computers and maybe get a new digital camera.  And, and maybe….etc.

Employment:  Prospects bleak.  ‘Cept self-employment, and ditzing around the house.  Neither pay well.

Vacation:  None.

Tonight is the Tunxis CC graduation.  My congratulations to them all along with best wishes to move along with all the tools they’ve been given to build something greater for themselves than they had with them before they entered.

One year ago I graduated there. Still is still movin’ to me, sings Willie.  Only I don’t trust even him right now. Still is still, and I’m just going nowhere different except in my mind and then it’s into walls or rooms that look the same one to another.  Ninety percent is my fault, but it easily falls in league with the ten percent that’s not.  Digging ruts is what I guess I do.

But what I leave behind is changed before I’ve gone a year or two: All three schools were rebuilt shortly after graduating; ex boyfriends buy brand new cars; companies have gone under, been sold or burned.

Maybe I have more effect than I believe.

Once upon a time they meant the same. 

I have always tried to support the locals.  Feeling useless to help the world at large; feeling that in this way too, the purchasing of goods as well as in the aid of friendship, that if each of us extend ourselves fully to those within our reach, the circles will overlap and help each other and somehow encompass all.  I am willing to pay a higher price to Ron and Ray and Annie for their goods to keep the Walmarts out of town.  Ray bent to the will of the populace and closed the deli down after thirty years.  He’ll be replaced by a sprawling something that will charge pennies less for goods and services that cost them dollars less to buy in bulk.

Ron is trying to keep up, his wife no longer starts the annuals from seed.  I buy my vegie plants and flowers there–for sixteen years now.  But what I bought and thought (and this was my fault for not checking, I suppose, despite their overlush appearance) were six trays of six petunias each for thirty dollars total–and high at that price–turned out to be six healthy and vigorous plants likely started in a greenhouse somewhere back in December.   They will not even fit among the geraniums and lobelia in the pots and will likely end up lining the dianthus in the front of the shop.  Now I need to buy some more at a sprawling somewhere else, too embarrassed for myself, for Ron as well, to return them.

Free enterprise is a special right and privilege; capitalism has become a dirty word.

Two days dirty, soil encrusted even in my ears.  Bone weary tired and sweaty, stopping now and then to settle in the shade with watered ice and one book or another for just a while.  The sun so hot, hot to burning even in the early morning.  I’ll go out at eveningtime, I say; don’t because I am by then so tired with arms that cannot even lift a trowel to plant petunias in a pot. 

Today I stopped when hearing telltale sounds of a jet coming into Bradley.  Did it several times today and counted: thirty seconds minimum from first sound to the last; fifteen seconds minimum to watch each streak across the sky.  Yesterday I stopped because the world was being blown away; three seconds total sound, two seconds’ worth of sight.  Air Force jets zooming round the state to highlight Memorial Day Parades.  His wing tips almost touching trees.

Tomorrow I will once again play in the dirt. 

Sun hotter than a week ago, I feel it burning on my arms in pulling weeds and hoeing up the garden.  Too much work; today the pain reminds me of my age and yet there is a drive within to go back out and finish; clear the soil and mark it into rows, plant the seeds and scoop out holes for peppers and tomatoes.  Herbs and squash can all be had at roadstands and on shelves without the toil, and yet it is a force that somehow I cannot ignore to work the soil. 

Strange, for one who is controlling, to work together as a team with sun and rain and bugs and time in summer projects.

Gardener’s Tip:  For those who don’t choose to wear gloves, rub lots of a thick, oily hand cream such as Nivea or Vaseline Intensive Care into your hands (and feet, if like me, you like to really be one with the earth) before you work with the soil to eliminate the stains of Mother Earth and the necessity of lemon juice and cleanser to get them out.