Patterns

Moby wanted to go out. So I got his harness on, and he walked away. Not terribly unusual, but then he went to the back door - which is. We went out the back way, which hasn't happened all summer. He sniffed long and thoroughly the back/side porch, explored the garden as I snipped off the lemon balm mint flowers, went back to the porch. Then back out around the garden, right to all the edges, paws in dirt. The driveway, out to the front. Much sitting. Then back, flopping at the neighbor's back door. When she came out, he watched her, then rolled on his back for a scritch. I had to urge him out, before she moved her car. He sauntered out front, and lounged half on half off the walk and the grass.

Just didn't have the heart to make him go back in, he was so engaged and content. I had nothing better to do, mere boredom didn't seem enough of a reason to cut short his evident enjoyment. D says we were out the better part of an hour. Well, that seems little enough to do for a beloved. Eventually he decided to come in. I took the brush to all the debris on his coat, and he settled in the guest room.

We watched Everything is Illuminated last evening. Strange and compelling film, tricky, funny, beautiful, touching. Eugene Hutz is a marvel, and the soundtrack is one of the best I've ever heard. I've never read the book, not sure if I want to. The story is obscured, and I think I prefer it so.

Continuing to clear sod and plant clover, the amount I can do easily in one session of hacking and planting. A series of Vs. The pattern, as it forms, appeals. I remember coloring as a child, and drawing patterns, doodles, repeating shapes in varying colors.



Mostly because I had no clue how to draw what I saw, or what I could see that I wanted to draw. I preferred to just lay down lines and colors, not trying to represent anything - because I felt I'd be no good at it. If I was given a drawing assignment, I did reasonably well. Rather like writing assignments. "Write about something" made me crazy. Write about what? I wanted a direction, the excess freedom felt like I was being cut adrift.

Obviously, this is not as much of an issue. I've been writing here for many years without direction save where impulsive winds take me. No grades, no paycheck, only comments.

Childhood frightened me, every day a new terror, another threat, a lonely death. Now, I am not frightened. The menaces still sit beyond, I know I walk the last steps to death alone, as we all do, but now my heart is safe.

And I can hack shapes into my lawn.