Reading: A.S. Byatt, Biographer's Tale

Not yet given up on: John Milton, Paradise Lost

In the midst of: ; Dava Sobel, Galileo's Daughter

On deck: Invisible Man; Don Quijote

Moving: turned the compost

House: turned the compost, spread mulch over an aread of grass to kill, started tomato and eggplant seeds, transplanted some worms from under another mulch pile to the garden. Whose soil is soft and warm and wet, despite being under a tarp all season.

23 March 2002: Balmy

• Get bookcase box out of living room
• Hang "Starry Night" poster (this one I can do today)
• Hang other three pictures (a print of "The Unicorn in Captivity") and two photographs of Devi's Hopyard SMW had blown up to 8.5x11) that the new bookcase displaced
• Turn the compost
• Spread mulch over an aread of grass to kill
• Started tomato and eggplant seeds
• Transplanted some worms from under another mulch pile to the garden

RDC fixed up the bikes and took his out to fetch a sandwich while I happily puttered in the backyard, getting dirt under my nails and into the callouses of my feet, ensuring Blake that the escaped helium balloon sailing by was not dangerous, and enjoying the sight of fresh white sheets in the breeze. And it was 70 degrees.

Cleaned up, I did errands.

I took a huge box of stuff to Goodwill--the linen skirt I wore on my first date with RDC, the suede skirt I wore with the deerskin tank (I first stained then outgrew each), the purple mohair sweater that's way too flamboyant in hue and shedding for me to feel comfortable in, the periwinkle blue lambswool dress, the short black chiffon dress with the (deliberately) flayed skirt, all hand-me-downs from CLH. A flannel floral dress I wore to my mother's capping ceremony (halfway through her LPN course). An orchid chenille sweater with three-quarter sleeves I have never liked, in color or cut, but felt guilty giving away since it was a present from CLH. The old blender. The phone I had in my dorm room. A Christmas house ornament of a trumpeting angel blowing, I swear, a golf tee painted silver, that I also felt guilty for giving away, since it was a present from SMW. Weird candlesticks that I didn't mind giving away despite their also being a Christmas present. Other candlesticks I thought I liked at the time I registered for them at, ahem, Service Merchandise.

I also brought a bag of bags to the plastic drop-off and made a run to Home Depot. I want to build a screen to sift the compost. I wanted to buy one, but I'm going to have to build one. I also got some pots to replant the survivors of a lovely green arrangement RDC's office sent during the MS scare and teak oil for the patio furniture, because hey, it was 70 degrees and I was in a sundress and I can't wait for patio meals. Then I happened into Butterfly.

She's just bought a house and it's called the Castle. "I--" and my mind, such as it is, went blank. "We have always lived in the Castle," I finished, lamely. I haven't read that. I love the book whose name I couldn't think of. "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink," I remarked to Butterfly, poor thing, trying to spark my memory. Cassandra Mortmain. Dodie Smith, who also wrote 101 Dalmatians. It was nearly a physical pain, this inability to recall the book to mind. Butterfly went off to buy her home security system--dowels to set into her sliding windows so they can't slide too far open--and I dialed a number I know by heart even though it doesn't spell the thing that Jessie first said it spelled. I remember that it doesn't, and that's how I remember what it actually is.

I did remember to ask her if she was feeling better first. Then, "What's that book I made you buy in Barnes and Noble [it was another chain, not B&N] last year, with Cassandra Mortmain?" That last phrase was of course unnecessary.
"I Capture the Castle," Jessie returned promptly.
"I'm so glad you were home." I would have had to, I don't know, call the library if she hadn't been there. I just don't know the library's number off the top of my head.

Butterfly agreed to join me for lunch at Wild Oats. It was now after two and I was ravenous. (As I tossed my stuff into Cassidy Butterfly said approvingly, "You could almost be a lesbian,") When I selected a chicken breast slathered in almond slices, a sleazy man with his pants unsnapped to accommodate his belly said something along the lines of, "Yuh gonna tell yuhr husband you cooked that, right?" and if Butterfly had been near me at the time I probably would have launched my poor excuse for a lesbian act. It's a poor excuse because I cannot act or lie off the top of my head like that. But I'm sure she would have helped.

She told me about her dog, who is named Snout and the descendant of an overambitious Dachshund and a surely unsatisfied German Shepherd. There's some Shih Tsu in there too. And her house. And I told her about my house. And then we went home. The end.