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Sunday doldrums

Was lying on the kitchen floor this afternoon at the start of Jane Ellison’s Zoom class when the storm began – an instant flood of rain, a crack of thunder, violent and loud. Ran around shutting all the windows and worrying about the downspouts. Now the air is sweet and fresh, and everything is watered. Hooray.

On Friday, across town by TTC – people mostly masked but some defiantly not – to Ben’s fifth birthday party with just a few of his friends. Usually Anna has invited half the planet; it’s amazing how much easier it is with 4 from one family. There was, however, as always, a delicious meal and then chocolate ice cream cake. I gave Ben a blue ukulele.

That night, I started to watch Amadeus from the National Theatre but didn’t like it much, too much busy melodramatic talking through the divine music. I have very fond memories of the play, which I, pregnant with Anna, saw in New York on New Year’s Eve of 1981 with her father. She started to kick for the first time during the show; I thought that meant she’d love classical music. That turned out not to be the case.

Instead of Amadeus, I watched another episode about Macca. Yes I did. Music also divine. “Frank Sinatra’s party” – another toe-tapping Macca earworm, I cannot get it out.
https://www.google.com/searchq=frank+sinatra%27s+party&oq=fran&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j0j69i57j46l2j69i60l3.1467j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

Yesterday, Saturday,  I have no idea what happened. Oh yes, Jean-Marc came over with fresh scones and we had coffee on the deck, and later Monique invited me for dinner on her porch with an old friend of hers. And in between I sat in my office, where now the door can be wide open because of John’s screen. And I did something there, though what is a mystery. Sorted. Moved paper around.

Oh, also, I had a long talk on the phone with my son about an issue that arose between us. How grateful I am that he’s a man who TALKS. Who’s honest and brings thing up, which allows the air to be cleared.

I had a long list of things to do today and did almost none of them. Truly, I have no idea what happens during the hours between rising and going to bed. I make lists and ignore them. There are newspapers and New Yorkers and books to read, and food prep and cleanup and gardening, of course, watering and pruning, and … A bit of piano, perhaps a walk or a bike ride, emailing and FB, and then it’s bedtime. Really? You’re soon going to be 70 and that’s all you accomplish in a day? How much longer do you think you have on this earth, to diddle around this way?

Mary Trump has done the planet a great service. Her uncle is disintegrating. Imagine, at last, the virus is something he can’t lie or buy away. Though God knows, he’s going to try.

It’s so quiet out now, at dusk, under a pewter sky tinged with pink. Barely a sound, a blessing. The air smells of summer after a storm.

Tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow I’ll tackle the list and get things done. Yes I will.

A recent Zoom screenshot selfie. Look at the depth of that line between the eyes; how I wish I could erase it. What I fear most, however, is wattles. Alzheimer’s, and wattles. In that order.

A better selfie:

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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