It is appropriate that I have an epiphany while reading Ulysses. This morning I realized proof of God--not my amorphous Gaia ideal but the typical occidental monotheistic dealie who pre-empts evolution.
Evolution cannot have created human breasts: they are too ugly, cumbersome, inefficient, and purposeless to have come into being by any method as gracefully ruthless as that. Other mammals can engorge only when they need to feed their young, but breasts are an evil perpetrated on humanity by a vengeful, perverse, sadistic, heterosexual male god.
/rant
There are plenty of breasts that are proportionate and shapely and a pleasure to their bearers. Mine are not.
....As as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness....
Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops....
Two 3.8-mile city rides. On the way in I did my Michael Jackson impression because the left glove I hoped might be in the car (when it wasn't in my helmet where it belongs) wasn't. I had left it in the shower room at work, so at least it wasn't lost.
Considering size of the roots I prized out of the ground along the north bit of fence compared to the amount of vines, I know scads of tree-like roots must support the creeper along the main length of fence. Today I looked for them. This meant shoving aside all the stones and logs and bricks I have thrown in the long dead space between raised vegetable bed and fence over four years, and scrabbling in the corner through the slowly decomposing three-year-old clods from digging out "lawn," and on the short side of the bed shifting a faster decomposing two-year-old supply of pine needles from one side of its unshiftable tarp to another, to pull out and hack through various infestations of creeper and root.
I wasn't as successful using the pickaxe as a crowbar as RDC was. Maybe because of our strength differential, but also possibly because I had much less space to work in without hacking out the fence or attacking needle-compost or sinking the pickaxe into gravel. Excuses excuses.
My entire front, t-shirt, skirt, and legs, as well as my arms, was covered with dirt and mud. RDC asked if I fell. When I told him I was weeding, he asked, "With your shins?" But I was propping up the tarp of needles to get at branches and roots underneath.
I disinterred lots more worms and dug them new holes in the garden. Maybe I was scared of my soil when I first explored this house, but I prefer to think that I have made a more friendly environment for Lowly and Arrakis and their pals.
There aren't many worms in literature as namesakes. Who else besides Richard Scarry and Frank Herbert can I name my worms for? Does the Worm in James and the Giant Peach have a name? I think all those critters are just called by their species.
Also I took up the grouncloth from half the north side of the house. I need to place a plastic border along the property boundary to keep the neighbors' grass and weeds from infiltrating my soon-to-be bishop's weed bed. I might take up all the groundcloth and plant the bishop's weed in the way back and then take cuttings from the maniacal Nepeta x faassenii to fill in the front. That plant seems to scoff so at injury, and the front gets at least some sunlight in high summer, that I would gamble cuttings would would do fine there. Nepeta is the sourdough bread of my garden.
I am looking forward to planting my new plants. The other task of my weekend, staining the fence, not so much.
When RDC2 was here, at least twice he didn't want to leave someplace because he was too tired to move. I wouldn't've brought a child to McCormick's at all, but it was a Sunday and I don't know a lot of babysitters, so along he came. He resisted for a while our suggestions to put his head on the table and sleep but succumbed before his meal arrived. When it was time to go, he resisted being woken and wanted to stay, perhaps using his grilled cheese as a pillow.
Friday when we gussied up and left him at Intern's for the evening, he claimed to be too tired to move when I picked him up at midnight--although he was awake and watching "Princess Bride"--so I obligingly carried him like a child half his age to the car.
Right now I am not getting up, even though if I did I could read Gilligan's Wake in bed, because I have a sleepy cockatiel on my ankle who huffs whenever I move. Shit, he just tucked as I saved this. Now I can't ever get up.
Both my mother-in-law and I have created monsters.