I have been riding my scooter; I didn’t lie, but really a good deal of my time the past couple of days spending the Kindle edition of Life After Life. The book review in the New York Times, which I read after finishing the book is HERE and, no, I did not spend anywhere near the price asked for the hardback.

I finished around midnight and then had a bit of trouble getting to sleep as I went over parts of the book in my mind.  I did sleep, however, only to have versions of the same stressful dream over and over again. I believe several times I became groggy and was aware of the real night in the room and then, not making all the way out of the hole of sleep, tumbled back into the depths of the dream.

Of course, for me, these two short paragraphs carry far more emotional force than the length implies.  I spent the time reading intently, probably experiencing and appreciating the book far more than I do  one of my quick, little straight plot stories. I spent the night tossing and turning and at moments, in that basic instinct of reality that hides behind dreams, yearning to wake up, only to fail.

So, is there a point to this post? I suppose not. But, then, I truly doubt there is any point to most of my posts – especially those that hop off into a whimsical world or red yarn haired cohorts and cows. I must state, though, that the AmeliaJake Can’t Stand Joe Biden posts do have a point. I think it is clear.

The NY Times Book Review revealed far more of the plot than I had intended to do in my mention of the book. I got the alternate life idea right off the bat; I did not know how far it would go. Now, if you read the review, you do. I don’t know which is better. It does feel nice to be validated in my evaluation of the writing level of the book, although I don’t need it. After all, I take my Faulkner in small doses with no apology.

I think there is one question not addressed at the end and I think it is an important one. While book club members may discuss it, I have reached a point in my reading experience when I simply accept the fact that perhaps the author reached the decision that the point was the story and if you were left wondering, well, do you really understand how  your TV or atomic fission work anyway? Just let it go; it’s a story, for Pete’s sake.

Now it is time to embrace that ritual which I am certain would show up in any version of my life – the peanut butter foldover.

Time for a tattoo – I’ve been a biker* girl for a couple of days. The guys at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse don’t know what to think.

*Uh, that’s a 50cc Honda Metropolitan.

UPDATE:

Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish; my update didn’t publish. I don’t know where it went; it hasn’t shown up on any draft or whatever. You didn’t miss much, I was simply remarking that I had noticed blue skies and felt that might mean I should go out and be active. However, I quickly looked at weather.com and discovered more rain is on it’s way. So I said, “Be still, my reading heart.”

I’m going to push “Save Draft” . . . Oh, wait,  you can’t on a post that has already been published once. I am going to open another window and recheck the weather prediction because I am not seeing any clouds coming toward me.

Aha:

Next 6 Hours:

Widespread showers and thunderstorms developing by late afternoon. The thunderstorms could produce heavy rainfall. Increasing clouds with temperatures steady near 76F. Winds S at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 80%.

Back to my book . . .

I put on a linen shirt over my sleeveless top because, compared to yesterday’s 87, it feels chilly this morning. I used to say it was gloomy or dark outside as I searched for a word to describe these days. I finally thought of it; it is: Brooding. The evergreens outside the windows which are on three sides of me show pockets of black and the branches hang heavily.

Well, so much for description. Okay, a bit more – thunder is rolling over my head. It is a good day to sit reading or tackle some project inside. Oh, dear me, which option will prevail? Maybe I should read and conserve my strength for all that lawnmower work the rain is generating. That does seem wise – a downright genius thought.

I left the nursing home as big black clouds hovered right out the west-facing door. I had no idea – Kathryn’s window faces east. I drove along, thinking I would see dark clouds in my rearview mirror. Well, I did, and then I saw them on top of me. It seemed odd because on Hwy 6, which I really don’t care for, I was averaging 50 mph.

But things started hitting my car. I got home, grabbed a blanket I had put over the fence for outdoor driving and headed on in. I looked at the weather warning and it said the storm was moving at 50 miles per hour. Oh.

Well, I had to take desperate measures and hit myself over the head. I spent yesterday upset with myself for pointing out how someone else should be really happy at a good situation; I knew I shouldn’t remark on it and, yet, I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t not push the send button. I was wrong.

Yes, I know. AmeliaJake wrong . . . how can this be? But sometimes  the thing you see in another is what is actually a really big part of yourself. As soon as I made my feelings known,  I could see –  and could not stop seeing –  how very much I do the same.  I am always complaining about my situation, never being grateful for the things I have been given . . . and sometimes squandered.

Yesterday, everything seemed to be geared to  show me that – not just my conscience. I did business with a man whose wife was just given the diagnosis of mouth cancer with a six-month life-expectancy; she was there and she calmly said she didn’t think she’d worry about it because her liver had failed from the side-effect of pain medication and she’s in her seventh month of life after that . . . but they only thought she’d last four months.

I really needed to hit myself over the head, but, of course, being AmeliaJake, I used a stuffed animal.

I see that a little town around here is having a 3-day festival. A lot of little towns have festivals with old-fashioned midway games and food booths and a DJ playing records at a park in the evening. One of the major attractions at this festival, according to the notice, is the return of the mechanical bull. (Perhaps they had a bull at Little House on the Prairie gatherings – only a real one.) There’s a picture: this mechanical bull is set up in the middle of what looks to be a giant turquoise air mattress. On Sunday, they are reviving an old tradition – a community picnic.

I notice there is never a “Relive Summers Past in an Un-air-conditioned House” attraction. They could set up a family kitchen  with a porch attached – a porch that has a swing. People could spend time in the “kitchen” with fans going and sweating iced-tea glasses and then as their clothes begin to cling to them, they could move out to the porch where they could talk to people passing by on evening walks. Or you could set up a circle of fake porches, chock-a-bloc and folks could talk back and forth over the narrow space between them while using a fan from a funeral home or church to stir a bit of personal breeze. You know, one of those cardboard cut-outs stapled to a piece of wood that resembles a small paint stick.

I did stomp the trash and did some other stuff and then I hopped on the Honda Metropolitan and rode around the block. All the time I was thinking, “Remember, look where you want to go . . . because you will go where you are looking.” I don’t know remember that happening on a bicycle, put maybe that was because I was pedaling it instead of being along for the ride.

I thought that in big capital letters when I went around a corner because for a moment I glanced at a car at the stop sign.

White scooter, grey hair. Woo Hoo!!

Maybe I need to take Rose along next time, but perhaps her screaming would distract me. She’d look cute, though. I think I’ll get Der Bingle to take a picture of us when he comes.

I could strap a lot of Raggedy Anns to my legs and arms and body in general so they could all have a ride . . . and provide a little padding if needed. Oh, dear, thinking like that could get me in trouble. I guess I need to look where my thinking is taking me before I actually let some thoughts form.

Today is Wednesday to most of the world; to me, it is the day before the trash is picked up early Thursday morning and that means we have to stomp it down so the trash lids will close. Why? Well, because a lot of our trash bags are, in a way, airbags, If I could drive comfortably with a bag of trash from our house on my lap, and if I had a wreck,  the air in the trash bag would probably totally cushion any collision I might have with the steering wheel.

I’m sorry I had that little visualization because it is sticking with me, just as the smashed, smelly trash would be in that situation. I had a Stomp the Bag Before Putting it in the Can program/campaign but it did not prove successful, and so now I do my best to round up a stomper – one who stands on top of the mound while I steady the can and ladder. Sometimes I have to be the stomper and that does not make me happy – although, with a nod to my personality, those are the times when I feel the job is done right.

Trash Stomping Day looms from early morning until the bins are actually out there, and in summer, that means until almost dark so people don’t have to skirt yucky stuff on evening walks. The cold of winter and early fall of night do have some benefits in dealing with this task, although ice can be tricky.

Enough of that. I haven’t decided what I am going to do today and it is already nine o’clock. I have managed to get some chicken breasts in the oven to bake for spicing up Shane’s lunch, so I am not hauling around that responsibility on my shoulders. I’m being serious here – really –  I mean I can’t just give the dog dog food. I can hand a kid a hot dog, but the dog, well, I actually cut up the chicken and blend it in with his dog food. And then I take it out to the porch and sit here while he eats. Otherwise, he might worry that I am off doing something he would be interested in, or, Heaven forbid, eating something really good.

In summer, though, I try to eat a lot of lettuce and vegetables; it doesn’t drive him too crazy and he will beg for carrots if there is dip on them.