This is a Saturday morning, one which I’m spending in the Blue Garrett with all my curtains open.  It’s going to be raining all weekend I guess, anyway it’s cloudy and humid and all outdoors is wet.  I know this because I got up, took a shower, made tea, and took it with me for a short jaunt around all my green growing things before coming back to the Garrett to read & write.  The basil and echinacea are coming up barely, I have lost almost all hope for the back bed, the roses are gorgeous and luxuriant, the rosemary and strawberries are ok, and the front tomatoes are not growing as fast as I want but are ok too.  All seems to be well, except for the back bed of course.  I’m happy to be able to wander outside and “check on things” again.  I’ve missed gardens.

Today I have to finish gluing several text blocks for journals, one of which is actually going to be my new planner.  I always make planners out of things that are not meant initially to be planners, so I end up numbering the pages with the days of the month, but this last one is the only really bad idea I’ve ever had for a planner.  It’s one of those … 10″x6″ or so spiral-bound things, terrible terrible idea because not only is six days too many days for one page of anything, but I kept having to write letters or jot down recipes and it got slimmer and slimmer until suddenly I realized that it wasn’t going to make it till June.  Which is in fact next month, a mere 2 or 3 weeks from now.  So that was worthless.  Except that it was nice to have recipes in my planner.  Yeah, that was really nice.  Oh well.

I’m probably going to fill out restaurant applications on Cumberland today, and the Starbucks in Bearden, because Crystal said they were going to be hiring a couple of people soon.  I really need something to come through, soon.  Things always come through, though; I guess I just mean … I really want to start paying on my Stafford loans again, be able to buy chocolate sometimes again, start saving money again.  Which reminds me that I also need to make Ellen a card today, since I’m going to her lingerie shower tonight and can’t afford any little nightslips or teddies.  Which really bothers me, I have to admit.  There are few things I like better than being able to get people lovely things for their lingerie parties … one thing I like better is getting myself lovely things for myself, for my collection of lovely things that I don’t have a chest-of-drawers for so I keep in a red suitcase under my bed.  One of the best presents (I have to mention this always!) I got for having cancer was Victoria’s Secret underwear from Katie and Lauren … there are no words for the magic of this and I save them for Special Days.  Oh the joy!

I was starting another book yesterday and goofing off on Facebook (not simultaneously) when I realized that I’m reading too many books right now.  There are several reasons for this, one of which is that I feel scattered in my life and have a hard time committing to a single book if I feel like it doesn’t fit my mood or talk about the current concerns.  It’s deplorable; I deplore it.  Therefore, I’m going to be reading today, trying to make some sizeable dents in Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing, Telling Secrets, and maybe … well, I’m trying to decide whether I should really read Suttree right now or whether I should go out and get Moby Dick. Suttree was all hip and made the rounds while I was doing some other incredibly important thing, like reading Bleak House or something, and I promised everyone I’d read it when I got to the top of the queu … but now Natalie’s reading Moby Dick, which I have ALWAYS wanted to read and which she keeps reading me excerpts from, these incredibly pithy passages on whaling, the sea, life, desire.  I want to read another book that is long, long and pithy, substantive in its desire for clarity and depth.  I think Suttree could be these things, but I know that it’s serious about style (I read the first bit & was really impressed), and serious about darkness.  Which is great, but I’m just not sure I should add a greater amount of dark presences to my life right now … there seem to be crises popping up here and there and I wonder if Melville could take me at a slower pace, an older language.  Sometimes you need romance, and sometimes you need these modern novels.  I think.

I’m going to write today as well.  This Buechner book I’m reading is very small, very easy to read, very … “lucid” keeps coming to mind.  Style is not this man’s forte, but this is an unimportant observation because style, I imagine, is unimportant to his purposes, which include as clear and direct a communication as possible.  He writes like he’s talking, like he has you in his library with cups of coffee and curtains pulled and is telling you the secrets of his life.  The title is “telling secrets,” which I feel is heavy on the alternate meaning of the word “telling”: secrets that tell you more than they set out to, more than they seem to mean.  He’s one of those saints that was totally transformed by Christ and these pages of autobiography are written like his most shameful hidden bits have been hosed off and brought out into the light, like all the windows and doors and closets in the house of his soul are open and full of light.  I know this can’t be entirely true for a person, but he seems to be near it.  So this is what God does to a person.  I knew there was something there.  And it makes me want to write, just like Marshall said it would when he lent it to me.  Already I’ve written a couple pages of secrets of my life, mostly pretty innocuous ones so far, but I hope to keep writing and be able to write some more painful secrets.  I hope to be able to write about a few things that are very telling in their events and in my general avoidance of them on a daily basis, things that I want out of the closed doors and windows and into the air, into the light.