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mallorys_cameraTwo things I'm conscientious about on a daily basis: making money and exercising.
I had to sign an ADA for the latest revenue-generating scheme, and the gig has no security: It could end tomorrow or maybe even after dinner tonight! (True of freelance writing, too, of course.)
But the work itself is so entertaining, I sometimes have a hard time pulling myself away from it. My years and years of Photoshop expertise finally paying off! And also a certain facility for what one might call imagination-casting, I suppose. I can make the nut in four hours a day—but I can also make extra. Ya gotta cut hay while the sun shines! I tell myself. True dat, but it does eat into time allocated to the Work in Progress.
###
I've increased my exercise tolerance: I'm now tromping three miles a day and will shortly return to the gym again to start working on upper-body strength. This was the year I finally started looking old to myself. No idea whether that's a real change or morbid self-consciousness. (I mean, I'm 74, of course I should look old.) I'm not talking wrinkles or crepe neck; I'm talking about the way my eyes seem to sink into their suddenly gaunt sockets: My face looks positively skull-like. Of course, I lost about 10 lbs working for Schlock, and as is always the case, I didn't lose it in my belly (where frankly I could afford to lose it); I lost it in my face and arms.
And there's also my clothes. I take an impish, almost perverse pleasure in dressing like a bag lady. (God knows why. I have an excellent eye for fashion.) But in the wake of all that weight loss, my pants are actually sagging, I have a hard time keeping them up. I look like some sort of low-rent rap star wannabe, MC Patty TaxBwana! Good grooming is a significator of mental health— as without, so within—so I really need to spruce up my image.
###
This has been a bad time for farmers and gardeners in the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley. About two weeks ago, during a brief run of 80° temps, all the fruit trees burst into blossom. Literally two days later, nighttime temperatures plummeted into the 20°s. The fruit blossoms' delicate pistils froze, which probably means that there won't be any apples, peaches, or cherries in the Hudson Valley this year. The celebratory marigolds and strawberries I planted died, too. Fortunately, I didn't plant very many of them.
It's still dropping into the 30°s at night here. Not frost, but difficult for tender seedlings. But by next week, we should be moving into night-time 40°s, and I'll plant some more. I sowed some peas along the fence two weeks ago—peas are hardy, cold-weather plants—but only a few of them sprouted. Peas and lettuce are the only things I grow from seeds. Usually, I buy baby plants from the nurseries—though this year, I scored a bunch of Roma tomato seedlings from a lady on Facebook.
In the meantime, I'm cleaning up my plot. Weeding, replacing the winter straw ground cover with wood chips. Nettles in particular seem to thrive in coolish weather, so it is a lot of work that involves much ferrying of laden wheelbarrels over long distances. (The New Paltz Community Garden is huge.) Ferrying laden wheelbarrels is hard on the back.
###
Dolores (not her real name), the lady who gifted me the seedlings, is a very nice lady struggling to maintain sobriety by posting on the New Paltz Page on Facebook 30 times a day, attempting to rally what she calls Community (with a capital C). She gives away seedlings, she gives away baked goods, she solicits donations on behalf of the battered cats who show up regularly at her door. She lives in what was once one of those old Dutch stone houses. Was there a fire? The house seems to have been extensively rebuilt, but that was a while ago. It has very low ceilings and very small rooms. I borrowed it to be Neal's house in the Work in Progress.
I could tell Dolores would be happy to hang out, but I don't want to hang out with her, I don't want to hang out with anyone. I've fully embraced my solitude; I no longer feel isolated. Talking to other people right now is an effort.
I had to sign an ADA for the latest revenue-generating scheme, and the gig has no security: It could end tomorrow or maybe even after dinner tonight! (True of freelance writing, too, of course.)
But the work itself is so entertaining, I sometimes have a hard time pulling myself away from it. My years and years of Photoshop expertise finally paying off! And also a certain facility for what one might call imagination-casting, I suppose. I can make the nut in four hours a day—but I can also make extra. Ya gotta cut hay while the sun shines! I tell myself. True dat, but it does eat into time allocated to the Work in Progress.
###
I've increased my exercise tolerance: I'm now tromping three miles a day and will shortly return to the gym again to start working on upper-body strength. This was the year I finally started looking old to myself. No idea whether that's a real change or morbid self-consciousness. (I mean, I'm 74, of course I should look old.) I'm not talking wrinkles or crepe neck; I'm talking about the way my eyes seem to sink into their suddenly gaunt sockets: My face looks positively skull-like. Of course, I lost about 10 lbs working for Schlock, and as is always the case, I didn't lose it in my belly (where frankly I could afford to lose it); I lost it in my face and arms.
And there's also my clothes. I take an impish, almost perverse pleasure in dressing like a bag lady. (God knows why. I have an excellent eye for fashion.) But in the wake of all that weight loss, my pants are actually sagging, I have a hard time keeping them up. I look like some sort of low-rent rap star wannabe, MC Patty TaxBwana! Good grooming is a significator of mental health— as without, so within—so I really need to spruce up my image.
###
This has been a bad time for farmers and gardeners in the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley. About two weeks ago, during a brief run of 80° temps, all the fruit trees burst into blossom. Literally two days later, nighttime temperatures plummeted into the 20°s. The fruit blossoms' delicate pistils froze, which probably means that there won't be any apples, peaches, or cherries in the Hudson Valley this year. The celebratory marigolds and strawberries I planted died, too. Fortunately, I didn't plant very many of them.
It's still dropping into the 30°s at night here. Not frost, but difficult for tender seedlings. But by next week, we should be moving into night-time 40°s, and I'll plant some more. I sowed some peas along the fence two weeks ago—peas are hardy, cold-weather plants—but only a few of them sprouted. Peas and lettuce are the only things I grow from seeds. Usually, I buy baby plants from the nurseries—though this year, I scored a bunch of Roma tomato seedlings from a lady on Facebook.
In the meantime, I'm cleaning up my plot. Weeding, replacing the winter straw ground cover with wood chips. Nettles in particular seem to thrive in coolish weather, so it is a lot of work that involves much ferrying of laden wheelbarrels over long distances. (The New Paltz Community Garden is huge.) Ferrying laden wheelbarrels is hard on the back.
###
Dolores (not her real name), the lady who gifted me the seedlings, is a very nice lady struggling to maintain sobriety by posting on the New Paltz Page on Facebook 30 times a day, attempting to rally what she calls Community (with a capital C). She gives away seedlings, she gives away baked goods, she solicits donations on behalf of the battered cats who show up regularly at her door. She lives in what was once one of those old Dutch stone houses. Was there a fire? The house seems to have been extensively rebuilt, but that was a while ago. It has very low ceilings and very small rooms. I borrowed it to be Neal's house in the Work in Progress.
I could tell Dolores would be happy to hang out, but I don't want to hang out with her, I don't want to hang out with anyone. I've fully embraced my solitude; I no longer feel isolated. Talking to other people right now is an effort.
no subject
Date: 2026-04-29 09:10 pm (UTC)