In anticipation of spending some time out back lopping back jungle to make it easier for Kinks to salvage my section of fence, I took the dog to the dog park for a long stretch this morn. Started a new paper journal there. Feel like I have a better handle on stuff I spoke/verse-rambled of recently with respect to interpersonal relations, cooperating with manipulation, etc. And I had no such handle yesterday. Not for a good hunk of the day. I had what may've been a backlash against my own growth spurt, succumbing for a while to the darkness. But then my bud talked to me at length of such stuff as reticular activation, and I had some long lazy chatting IHOPpery with Peter, whose charms were not lost on me, and it ended up being a good day, a shockingly easier one than it'd looked like on which to, at bedtime, identify things from it I was grateful for.
Around midday Lula and I drove through White Castle and texted with Dave of emotional fluffery (he'd just had a bad time that way, and we bond in that regard) then stopped by the library, and tho Lu'd been in the car a bit I didn't bother to attach her leash when we got back, and, sure nuff, she followed me up the stoop to come in. I gave her a FroBone to chomp on while I scooped the litter box and moved the laundry and put the (dry, after this morning's disassembly and cleaning) Fiskars pruners back together, spring, Allen wrench, screwdriver, 3-D brain/angles and all. Looks like I fixed 'em. :)
I know where my work gloves are, and in a bit I'll head out into the increasingly cool afternoon and lop and cut up some organic matter. This morning I imagined wheeling the compost cart to the road as one thing I was looking forward to today, and I still am. Later I'll sit in a living room and talk about and listen to stuff about psychology. Right now, though, the dog's laid out on her side, the smells-great breeze blows in the window, and I'm finishing my giant iced tea while Ida Lupino's character in Out of the Fog (1941) is talking to her dad and clearly struggling, à la George Bailey crossed with Scarlett O'Hara and some sap of a diehard lover, with her attraction to the male equivalent of a femme fatale, the scoundrel Goff (John Garfield).
Ida Lupino fuckin' rocks.
And her character here, Stella, bites. Young Eddie Albert and others who love her are watching her succumb to her kind of darkness. The script suggests the problem is her wanting to be something other than ordinary. I see how it can happen the other way, though--- wanting to be at least somewhat ordinary, or ordinary in certain ways, despite what delights there are in going with the ordinary reality of not being ordinary. That's terrible to stand by and watch, too, and terrible to be in, so screw it. Screw it when/if it's me, her, anyone.
I don't know which way Ida will go, but it's noir, so her happiness through acceptance is not likely. Not without more tragedy first, at least, so not the smooth happiness she might have, were her thinking, her desire, not so warped. I like these fishermen characters, though, her dad Jonah ("Yonah") and his buddy Olaf. I don't think I can lop 'til I see what happens to these folks.
It's from an Irwin Shaw play called The Gentle People, in contrast with the callous, the inconsiderate, the bulls in china shops, the ones who are most afraid of fear, and thus poisoned as human beings.
Hey, did you know Europa does a warpy thing that heats it and makes it contain a mysterious internal ocean? Or about the weird methane rain on Titan?