Hillary continues to inspire, but the giant orange blowhole has not yet disappeared up his own @#$#. Please God make him go away, far far away forever. The editorials in every sensible newspaper are telling him to go @#$ himself, and still, there he is.
I’ve decided to start a new section of this blog called Annals of Aging, to chronicle my descent into my golden years. No, my ASCENT. Climbing up to a ripe old age, that’s a better image.
I have wrinkles that bug me – those nasty vertical cuts above my lips and eyebrows and the ones lining my cheeks. Okay, I’m not shrivelled yet, but there are lines. I’d heard about retinol, the miracle cure for aging skin, so got a prescription from my doctor. It said to start slowly in case of reaction so I did – it seemed fine. Smeared it on night after night and waited for the starry glow of youth to return.
Instead, what started to glow was my wrinkles, in patches of raw red. Though I stopped using the stuff months ago, the lines between my brows and bracketing my mouth are still – not smoothed out, but bright red. Horrible; worse than before. I think there is a lesson about vanity here.
I’m in the obsessive stage with my book – as if it’s a helpless infant that cannot be left alone, everything revolves around it. The finish line – at least of this draft, this go-round – is in sight. I think. I love it, my little creation. Will the rest of the world? Who cares?
I do. And here’s another brilliant creation – a new canvas by Paul Klee they’ve just discovered at the Louvre.
I promise I won’t do this too often, but … it’s actually a self-portrait by my grandson the genius.
It’s the heaven of autumn out there, warm by day, chilly at night, the garden fading yet still magnificent in its last burst of beauty.
I just picked 30 ripe cherry tomatoes. How I’ll miss going out and returning with treasure. Soon time to put the garden furniture away and pull out the boots.
Climbing up to winter. Time for a glass of red.