It’s nearly September. Though the weather is temperate and lovely, everything is shifting, cooling down, even me – for the first time in months, I had red wine, not rosé or white, with my dinner (tho’ cucumber-based.) I’m now wearing a sweatshirt, this morning wore socks on my way to the market. The corner garden store has chrysanthemums. The garden is overgrown with stuff falling over and starting to fade, though still, I hasten to say, gorgeous and lush. But, except for the cucumbers, slowly dying.
Aren’t we all?
I had work this week, had to put on respectable clothes and a bra to go to a meeting at U of T about a student’s work on which I’d worked as an editor. It went well. There are already 13 in my course there, with a month to go, and 11 at Ryerson with just over a week. Funny, last term there were so few.
Last night I watched something really fun and interesting on HBO: My Favourite Shapes, by Julio Torres. It’s quirky, unique, and hilarious, with a very clever young man actually showing us the shapes he loves, bringing them to life as they move around him on a conveyor belt – well, impossible to describe. I loved it.
Tomorrow, a new tenant moves in upstairs, so I’ve been cleaning and prepping; there’s a vase of garden flowers up there, mixed with sprigs of lavender, mint, and oregano. Too much to do, as always, including the nonfiction conference, which needs us to come up with a suggested list of presenters to contact; figuring out new things to do with cucumbers; work on my parents’ letters, which had me phone my shrink to ask for her help to process what I’m learning; and planning for next year, which includes the San Miguel Writers’ Festival in February and some kind of event for my 70th birthday in August. Yes. 70. As I said to Lynn today on our Skype call from Provence to Toronto – once you turn 70, it’s only 20 years to 90.
However. We’re here. Dark times on earth, but young Greta is there banging the drum in NYC. Could the situation in Britain and the U.S. get any worse? Yes, it seems, yes. But Ben starts school on Tuesday. He can’t wait.
In only 20 years, he’ll be a grown-up of 24. And, if I’m still around, I’ll be 89.