The grooviness of life
I got locked out of the house by contractors again. WTF. A girl shouldn't need a hammer to get into her own house. My super cute khaki's are covered in green slime from climbing over the fencing. I am a little bit concerned that I will go home tonight and find that I am again locked out. I am a little bit concerned that this will be a problem next week too. I need to take a lock picking class. And even after I got in and figured out what happened, I was fucking freaked out for the rest of the night and the better part of today. So I started writing a song about it and I feel a little bit better.
When I think about it, I am lucky that I didn't get arrested trying to get into my own home, as Professor Henry Louis Gates was.
In speaking with G about it, she attempted delicately to point out that I have a sort of home issue, that there are a lot of people for whom being locked out of the home, even for several days (like even 2 weeks) would not be such a big deal. It had not occurred to me that I was not exhibiting normal behavior, that my emotional and actual reaction was outside of what most would do. (CK also said something to the effect that she probably would not have gone to the lengths I did to get into my own home. It seemed normal to me, in previous lives I have had friends who helped me gain access to my apartments when locked out. G also attempted delicately to point out that perhaps at the time I was hanging out with a shady crowd and it's a good thing that I no longer roll with that crew.
But I suppose is true. I am very attached to the concept of having a place where I live, somewhere with a door with locks for which I hold the key. I am more of a homebody than I wanderer.
I have three orchid plants at my desk. They are all failing to thrive in my care. Lack of light, lack of proper feeding, lack of good root aeration, but mostly lack of me watering them. When watering them today, on the worst of them, a plant with enormous withering leaves and decaying roots that I recently snipped back to stumps, I spied a little green rootlet extending out from under the leaves. Despite my neglect, despite impossibly unfriendly conditions, despite a lifetime of suffering at my hands, it wants to live. Such optimism, such an impossible act of hope, it's damn inspiring. The plant is flipping me the bird and doing the best it can. In the face of this, what do I have to bitch about?