Chickory By the Road
Jul. 17th, 2015 07:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraAnother dream in the labyrinth rabbit warren house – This time, I couldn’t keep track of all of my pets. And I had lots of pets. A party? Something. People were pouring through, and one of my dogs was missing – a small Xena dog (oh, the guilt I still feel over Xena!) I kept searching and searching frantically. How could I have lost her?
People I knew were in the party – Tim W___, John M__________, Susan. And I was pretending to ignore them – I don’t know why, they clearly recognized me, clearly wanted to talk to me.
And then Susan finally came up to me. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”
And I just sort of backed off, tried to run away.
“Don’t do this, Patty, don’t,” she said.
And I paused and thought, Is it possible that we could be close again? Friends? But money changes everything…
When I woke up, I thought: She’s dead. Or she had a heart attack. Or she was dreaming of me, too…
Although probably not.
The raspberries are ripe on the Vanderbilt Estate although you can’t pick them, they’re on the steep hills leading down to Elbow Crum, impenetrable. And the chickory is blooming by the side of the road. Chickory is the last wild flower in the seasonal procession. How can this be? I wonder. Is the summer really over?
Not yet, no.
But soon.
In the first week of August, we’ll begin to see a little yellow, a little orange creeping into the dense green foliage of the maples and oaks.
Autumn in these parts is a very long season.
I’m still in revenue generation mode, which is boring but necessary.
Next week begins another social swirl.
In the meantime, I’m about two-thirds of the way complete with the Eleanor ghost story – which still doesn’t have a title. It’s been a hard story to write because I never properly entered into The Zone with it. It’s hard little chiseled sentences without any kind of flow. I see that, but I’m not sure anyone else would since I really have reached that level of craft as a writer where inner process isn’t necessarily reflected in outer results. The difference isn’t necessarily in the final product; the difference is that it wasn’t all that much fun to write.
Taking Alicia’s swanlike Haley to see An American in Paris; ordering hand-painted shoes from MaryAnn’s Madeleine. Seems important somehow to make those types of bridges with the up-and-coming generation.
People I knew were in the party – Tim W___, John M__________, Susan. And I was pretending to ignore them – I don’t know why, they clearly recognized me, clearly wanted to talk to me.
And then Susan finally came up to me. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”
And I just sort of backed off, tried to run away.
“Don’t do this, Patty, don’t,” she said.
And I paused and thought, Is it possible that we could be close again? Friends? But money changes everything…
When I woke up, I thought: She’s dead. Or she had a heart attack. Or she was dreaming of me, too…
Although probably not.
The raspberries are ripe on the Vanderbilt Estate although you can’t pick them, they’re on the steep hills leading down to Elbow Crum, impenetrable. And the chickory is blooming by the side of the road. Chickory is the last wild flower in the seasonal procession. How can this be? I wonder. Is the summer really over?
Not yet, no.
But soon.
In the first week of August, we’ll begin to see a little yellow, a little orange creeping into the dense green foliage of the maples and oaks.
Autumn in these parts is a very long season.
I’m still in revenue generation mode, which is boring but necessary.
Next week begins another social swirl.
In the meantime, I’m about two-thirds of the way complete with the Eleanor ghost story – which still doesn’t have a title. It’s been a hard story to write because I never properly entered into The Zone with it. It’s hard little chiseled sentences without any kind of flow. I see that, but I’m not sure anyone else would since I really have reached that level of craft as a writer where inner process isn’t necessarily reflected in outer results. The difference isn’t necessarily in the final product; the difference is that it wasn’t all that much fun to write.
Taking Alicia’s swanlike Haley to see An American in Paris; ordering hand-painted shoes from MaryAnn’s Madeleine. Seems important somehow to make those types of bridges with the up-and-coming generation.
