Apparently, I tried to poison myself yesterday by eating a berry from this plant.
That’s what happens when you take Big City Girls out of the Big City.
I often take tiny nibbles out of plants I find when wandering around the countryside here.
If birds can eat berries, then why, oh why, oh why, can’t I, right?
This one looked a lot like the wild grapes that grow all throughout Tompkins County. But it’s not. It’s poke weed.
It didn’t taste good. Very… foxy would be the word.
But I didn’t get sick.
In other news, I continue in my dyspeptic mood.
It’s brain chemistry.
I mean, there are proximal causes: I am the most insignificant human being ever to be spawned in the 100,000 year evolution of human beings on this planet – which is ironic, no? Since that degree of insignificance is surely a distinction!
Also, I worry about money.
What if I don’t get paid Friday? What if the Scut Factory simply decides not to pay me? How will the cats eat?
And what if I have some fatal disease? I loathe doctors. Haven’t gone to one in years. I try to eat right, exercise daily, and get lots of sleep. Every week when C comes to visit L, he lugs this suitcase, which is filled with prescription drugs! He takes all of them! And I just think, Ugh! Why? What’s the point? Why would anyone want to live till they’re 100? Either you end up like those poor people in that famous photo out of Houston, sitting around in the nursing home, waist-deep in sewer water, or you end up like the ones that dropped dead from heat prostration in that nursing home in Florida. Or you end up like Bob Zeigenhirt, whom frankly, I think, would like to die – only his kids won’t let him.
My kids wouldn’t care if I died. I mean – they love me. But I’m the Velveteen Rabbit. More a part of their memories than of their everyday lives.
These worries preoccupy me to such a degree that I find it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything else.
I owe you a phone cal, emailed Max.
You don’t “owe” me anything, I emailed him back. Of course, it’s always nice to hear from you.
They found a box filled with my stuff in the basement of the house Max used to live in in San Francisco. There’s a Miles Davis album and a Muddy Waters album I wouldn’t mind having, the owner of the house emailed Max.
The Great Diaspora and subsequent Storage Follies means hardly any of all the possessions I used to own do I own now.
So, of course, no random stranger is gonna get my Miles Davis and Muddy Waters albums. I remember when I bought them. Never mind that I don’t own a record player.
Yes, I want those back, I emailed Max.
I mean – Why wouldn’t I?
So, they sent Max the box.
Same way it is with friends – it’s odd the possessions you end up keeping. They’re never necessarily the possessions you once cared about the most.
Some old journals from around the time that Max was born. Pictures of my mother. A framed picture I once drew – back in the days when I still drew – that used to hang in Max’s nursery on San Lorenzo Street. Pictures of you when you were a kid, Max wrote. Except there are no pictures of me as a kid, my mother having not been the least bit sentimental about me. So they must actually be pictures of Max.
I guess I’ll pick them up when I’m in California in November.
It was a very odd feeling thinking about Max going through that box. Like I was dead, and he was sifting through my personal possessions.
So funny. I remember doing exactly that after my mother died. Trying to find something, anything, that would explain the enigma she ultimately was to me.
I didn’t find anything.