I've had a bit of a collapse this weekend, and I've enjoyed it. I almost went back to the farm with my Best Friend for last night, but decided to stay in the city thinking it might be our last chance to have a fire, but it was not quite cool enough. Perhaps tonight will be. Friday night, aforementioned Friend coaxed me out to our regular spot for a little bon voyage dinner and drinks (well, pitcher beer) for her Dear Husband who was leaving the next morning for a ten day trip to some of the more, er, remote areas of Africa. She got him a cake that said "Into Africa" on it. I could tell he thought it was silly and was touched at the same time. She had balloons, one of which was a shamrock saying "Get Lucky" so I'm betting he was thrilled about that. I'm glad we went, because aside from getting to spend nice time with them (and drink beer and eat cake), our little neighborhood spot had live entertainment and it was wonderful. Minka Wiltz and and her eclectic group of talented musicians, Ta·boo·ré (or Redfropro - I'm a little confused). Still they were wonderful and included a hot as fire young violinist riffing with a trumpeter, gently accompanied by a keyboard background. The drummer showed up late but it didn't matter because it was Minka's haunting often improvised operatic vocals that really made it memorable. She sang a couple of real songs with another female vocalist, including one of her own with a chorus that proclaimed, "I drag race my demons in a Carnival parade." The whole thing was more of a jam session than a performance, our little regular spot packed with new faces, no doubt following Minka. It was the best time I've had in a long while.
Since then, I've barely gotten out of bed, no doubt bringing great joy to the Old Blind Dog who's happily spent that time with me. It was a beautiful weekend but somehow lost on me. I did manage yesterday to shower and put on clean clothes and go out to get the week's groceries, without which my little family would fail to function. I'd also say that I'm proud I managed to strip and wash my bed linens but for the fact that I would never have done that if I hadn't had what we're now calling the "coffee accident" (not to be confused with a previous "chocolate accident") first. I'm very grateful that Sister Bel has been cooking because I haven't even managed to get dressed today, but there was meatloaf and mashed potatoes last night (and therefore a meatloaf sandwich on sourdough with milk for lunch) and a big pot of vegetable beef soup simmers on the stove at this writing. I am trying to take care of myself and my sadness like I would if I were actually ill. The Youngest has just returned from visiting The Oldest across the street (this is going to take some getting used to). The Oldest is no longer a North Carolinian and is moved, mostly unpacked and ready to resume his job search. I am certain that he must be depleted but he seems strong.
So I carry on. I've been holding up well at the KnockingShitDownCo, showing up and getting my work done, but liking it less, feeling that somehow I'm not living up to Sean's directive to ""Dance like no one is watching, love like you've never been hurt, sing like there's nobody listening, and live everyday like it is your last day on earth." I've been dreaming of making pots, feeling like I'm wasting a gift, wondering how I can make it right.
Peace, out, y'all.
Apologies for being repititious, but I feel like adding this (thanks, Izzy):
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