(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
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non-subject: "a time cut off from time"
october, 2009
I know I am afraid to approach the subject. I wonder that if I write what I really feel, what I really felt, what really happened; I wonder if I am gossiping. Or distorting. Or breaking confidences. It scares me so; to the point I tremble and cry. Why does it scare me so?
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It was Friday afternoon. The responsibility of dreaded paperwork had arisen to the top of the to-do list. I excel at procrastination, especially when it comes to paperwork and even to correspondence. Sometimes I feel detailed to death; so many god-damned details. Such a part of modern life.
Paying bills, catching up on correspondence, and such; I like to do those tasks on my screened-in back porch. The openness of the porch eases the tension of the sealed envelopes which I neatly open with my silver letter opener. Sitting on the porch I can peer across the deck and out into our back yard with its fig trees; the giant pin oak; the once beautifully tended landscaped areas with hostas, various perennials, and now naturalized black-eyed suzies and (considered by most) weeds because I suck at yard work; the two garden plots now home to weeds and grasses and volunteer blackberry bushes; and the tile-roofed shed surrounded by mint, a huge butterfly bush, and a couple azaleas. Zoysia grass, the kind of grass that feels like the grass of a golf green or thick lush down, covers at least 1/3 of the back yard. The rest of the grass is just grass, and clover sprinkled with some tiny wild strawberries. I like clover.
The backyard slopes slightly upward as one walks the 200-feet from the deck to the wooded area with its tall swaying white pines amidst oaks and elms and dogwoods, some wound with poison sumac. The woods are thick with brush under the trees, scattered with poison oak and ivy. Birds abound in the treetops. An occasional deer makes itself known even though we are in the city; well a city for North Carolina. Our property goes another 150 feet or so into the woods, to the street of the next neighborhood.
I walk out onto the porch. It's around 4:00 on a beautiful mid-October Friday, 2009. Darcy isn't up yet, at least that I've been aware of. I was up from around 8:00 AM until 10:00 AM, then fell back to sleep until around noon. I've not heard Darcy rumble since I've been up. I'm not concerned as, like me, she has sporadic sleeping patterns.
The Formica-top porch dining table where I do my paperwork needs wiping. I always clean it and the vinyl seated metal chairs before taking my perch to embark upon the onerous task of bill paying. On the table sits a left over 1/2-drunk cold cup of coffee with a spoon in it; beside it a few stain drops of the liquid lay on the cream-colored Formica. A few ashes have landed as well. We don't allow cigarettes in the house.
I take the leftover cup of liquid into the kitchen, pour out the remains, and place the green soup-sized coffee mug in the top rack of the dishwasher. I wipe down the Formica table top, my pre-paperwork ritual. I don't mind cleaning up the coffee cup, its remains, or the ashes. I straighten the chairs.
An old brown wooden end table sits between two metal outdoor chairs next to the brick wall behind which lies the dining room. The brick wall is the only solid wall of the porch. The other three sides are lined with screen with a metal roof over top. Wind chimes of various varieties play a harmonic symphony when the wind stirs strongly enough.
On the wood end table are remains of Darcy's cigarettes. In the small decorative china saucer I found for her to use as an ashtray are two to three butts with their ashes. On the wooden shelf beneath the wooden table top is a china bowl. Eight to ten cigarette butts with ashes are in the bowl; there are lots of ashes, too many it seems for the cigarettes. Darcy didn't ask if she could use this bowl. No big deal; it's not a good bowl. Still I'm somewhat surprised she hadn't asked to use it.
Beside the bowl are two open packs of cigarettes and a 6-inch long, 1-1/2 inch diameter, 1/2 burnt bundle of sage. Ah, that must be where the abundance of ashes came from that are in the bowl. Earlier in the week, Darcy told me she had burnt some sage. There are some ashes spread a bit about the cheap wooden table. No biggie; I'll just wipe it clean.
I close two cigarette packs. One pack is empty, but I've learned that Darcy is very particular about her things. I'm never sure what to throw out and what to keep, or even what is permissible to touch. So I close it and place it neatly under the pack that is 1/2 full.
I empty the ashes and butts from the saucer and bowl, except for one cigarette that looks like it was prematurely snuffed and maybe is going to be puffed again later. I clean and sanitize the two pieces of china that held the butts and ashes. I place the prematurely extinguished ciggie on the edge of the now cleaned decorative small saucer; I place the 1/2 burnt sage bundle in the now freshly cleaned china bowl.
Darcy has two papers on top of the wooden end table. I don't read them; they are not my business. I move them to wipe the table and then neatly put them back using a candle and the pretty saucer with the 1/2 smoked ciggie as weights to keep the papers from blowing on this breezy fall day. I place the china bowl, with the sage in it, beside the two cigarette packs on the shelf just beneath the table top.
There, all feels good. Time to dive in.
I bring out my laptop, my paperwork, my portable plastic black file caddy, the ceramic outgoing mail container, and the recycling box for paper. There is always lots of paper to recycle; I hate junk mail. I set up my computer to catch up on some emails and to maybe chat on Facebook, if someone is online who I want to chat with.
It feels very pleasant and fresh, the breeze adding to the mood. I sit down and check Facebook first. My friend James from Australia is there. It's been over a month at least since we've chatted; he's always fun to chat with. James is an ex-Jehovah's Witness and has been a great help to me. We've even talked on the phone, all the way from Oz.
Shortly after I get settled Darcy comes out. She has just gotten out of bed and is disappointed she has "wasted another day." She again said she didn't sleep all night and has been laying in bed. I comment that I'm sorry she had another rough night.
She looks at the table and sees the leftover coffee is gone.
"Where is my special coffee?" Her voice is angry and accusatory. "I made that earlier this morning and was going to finish it."
I feel myself internally tighten, feeling I again have done something wrong. "I cleaned up the porch. I'm sorry; I didn't know it was special. I thought it was simply left over."
Darcy turns. Irritated she walks back inside the house, into the kitchen. I hear the percolator being assembled.
I dismiss my feelings....it's just coffee; she'll get over it.
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