At Gunderson's Farm, Summer 1939
If I can stop doing art and the woman on the verge can stop knitting for five damn minutes we aim to load up Lucy in the pickup and head down to the dog beach and run her ass silly. Then she can sit in the truck and gather herself while we eat elevensies at the Sea Shanty.
That is the plan.
Yesterday we picked up our new coffee table. My step-brother is a furniture maker who lives a few miles up the road. He makes stuff out of big slabs of redwood and cedar and I had him make us a coffee table, japanese-influenced trestle legs topped with a slab of cedar, capped on each end with clean milled pieces of cedar. It is a beautiful piece.
But I pulled the trigger on the commision without consulting the woman on the verge, which is a stupid, thoughtless thing to have done. Not typical of me, perhaps, but not unheard of, either.
It takes whatever pleasure I might have got from it and kind of edges it in guilt and remorse.
I suppose we'll get over it.
It is beautiful.
Last night I made this Peruvian-Chinese fried rice with chicken and avocado and cilantro and green onions and a mess of pickled red onions. The woman on the verge picked it out, and it was a stunner. We had my Mom and Step-father over and there is still about ten pounds of the stuff left.
It were good.
Maybe something is happening or going to happen.
I feel like I am in limbo...