Bloody your hands on a cactus tree. Wipe it on your dress and send it to me.

Well, I didn't go that far, but I did wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts today. I can't sleep lately and this morning decided to just get out of bed at 5:30. I wasn't going off with Morpheus and everyone knew it. I got up and had the first cup of coffee I've had in a week. I ate a plum while it was brewing. I rustled up Alex and we shared the coffee ritual, morning for me and afternoon lunchtime for him. I don't think he had a plum, probably something Fh-rennch.

I got an early start on the chores du jour. I weeded the garden. I dug up some earth and moved it to a spot that needed it more. I mowed the lawn. Then, I watered everything. As I stood watering, I realized that watering is one of my most favorite things to do right now. Last night, I was reading to Alex from The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh. He'd chatted me through doing the terrible pile of dishes in my sink a little earlier and now he was going to sleep. He's more advanced with mindfulness than me. Never mind, I was reading the first chapter which talks about the "essential discipline," best illustrated through the simple: "When washing the dishes, wash the dishes." The thing that struck me was that he said by rushing through one thing to get it finished and move on to the next or being preoccupied with something other than what you're doing, you're not experiencing life, because you are not experiencing that moment. He said in those instances, we are living the past or the future. Not in the moment. I'm sure my explication is sloppy but, well, I kind of saw what he meant.

I'm in therapy yet again and the new therapist asked me about my spirituality or religion. I tried to come up with something quick-like. My eyes darted about the room. I told her, well, I've been reading about mindfulness lately (meaning last year). She liked that and decided that one path out of my own confused and clumsy approach to life would be through the practice of mindfulness. One thing I noticed when reading aloud from the book last night was that mindful people can repeat the same words in sentences a lot and nobody says anything bad about them.

Today, when I was watering, I was watering. It's easy to do with that task. The sun was shining, I have my new nozzle, the plants were all "Hey! Cool. And we mean that literally!" I felt good about what I was doing and decided to just water. I mean, I think you're allowed to think other thoughts like, "Oh, that flower is starting to bloom" while you are watering. Or at least I hope so. I think it's possible, when admiring the flower, to admire the flower while watering the grass, all mindful and such. I had a long day ahead of me, but I stayed focused on the gift of water for the moment. It was pleasant. I enjoyed misting the plants especially.

Then I tried to practice mindfulness with everything I did: spray painting a wicker ottoman, talking to my neighbor about tools, scraping the blistered paint from my house, applying primer to the bare spots, eating a pastrami sandwich. (In this town, there is a loud horn that goes off at noon, so I always know it's lunch time. It's old-fashioned and wonderful, the horn.) I practiced mindfulness pretty well, I must say, although the lure of the computer was tugging from time to time. I finished at 3ish and met Alex back online. We were interrupted by a man coming around to look at a print I am trying to sell so I can buy more paint. He didn't like it. He said the woman, posing nude for Modigliani, was beautiful but her eyes were empty. He mentioned "the window to the soul," even. I was disappointed. We'll meet again though, as he invited me to coffee. He's also from Seattle. I may have a friend.

After that I stopped practicing mindfulness. I fretted about time wasted; I thought about money lost; while talking to Alex I was not talking to Alex. I was talking to myself, I guess. Old habits. We got back on track after a break, and I read from Franny and Zooey, one of my favorite books and one that led me to the poet Issa, I believe. He fell asleep. I tinkered with my malfunctioning laptop and then made dinner. I tried not to rush dinner and afterwards, I enjoyed washing the dishes though mostly because there were only seven of them from the day. After a little bit, I remembered the ice cream sandwiches I bought today. They were on sale, and a brand I didn't know, but I figured what the hell. It's almost impossible to make a bad ice cream sandwich. Nobody cares if it's Häagen-Dazs ice cream in a sandwich. They really just care about the mush of the sandwich cookie part again their fingers and the melding of flavors--graham crackery chocolately cookie and semi-soft vanilla ice cream. I was right, Blue Bunny ice cream sandwiches are delicious. And I returned to mindfulness with mine. I was all about the sandwich. I think I may have to practice mindfulness a little more tonight before I go to bed.

And nah, that's the Pixies, not me. They're so dramatic!

For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.

It's late. I've been watching the carnivorous television show Mad Men for a couple of hours, in between moving around furniture and trying things on for size. "For size" is literal, my house is 360 square feet and every inch counts. You know how I feel about the inches.

For some reason, I got sad about poor people tonight. It's funny cos I'm one of them. But I was remembering how I feel (or used to feel) when I'm in line behind someone buying just a can of chili and a box of Saltine crackers at the store. (Oddly, this feeling often prevents me, myself, from buying Top Ramen noodles when I might really be craving them.) It's a paternalistic emotion, some would say. But I reckon that feeling is more maternalistic than anything else. And don't call me sexist.

When I went to the store tonight, I decided I couldn't afford a pint of good ice cream. I regret that decision. I want that ice cream muchly. I do not even care what flavor. I regret not buying it like I regret trying to shave my legs at 11 years old; like I regret trying to use that brick to hold down our "diving board" when I was five. Even, like I regret not stopping for that hitchhiker back in the late 90s. Now? It's all I can think of, the ice cream. Let's call it sacrifice and then raise it. By a dollop of whipped cream and two tablespoons of chocolate syrup.

There was a paragraph here that I wrote and lost. I can't be bothered to rewrite it. It involved the Teamsters, my decent health insurance growing up, the hoodlums that use to run the organization, working people undervalued, and the price of food. You know, shit like that. What it said was that I am in favor of unions. What it said is that I can thank my teeth to the Teamsters. My dad got paid a living wage. And what it said was "Yeah, those Teamsters got all Mafia up in this bitch," or as someone I know likes to say, "power corrupts." But unions were formed so that working (class) people weren't screwed. So they also didn't have to shop at the company store nor find themselves homeless as a result of a home mortgage crisis. That their kids didn't go off to war cos it was a job and MacDonald's wasn't hiring.

Fuck. I lost more than two paragraphs. The universe at work, I'm sure. It sneaks up from behind me at times, particularly when I'm putting on the high hat. God. What an editor.

Reader? I'm poor and prideful. Not the best combination. Tomorrow I've got some money on my side to buy food and coffee and Top Ramen. The last time I shopped, when I was clearly surprised by how much I spent, the girl said "That's what happens when you buy brand names." I was like, "Uh, this is what you consider a brand name? Hunts?" Sheesh. So, until I sell my novel about the adventures of two cats in a dysfunctional household, it is Western Family for this western famly. It's either that or dumpster diving. And yeah, my ass looks fat in that dumpster.

The photo is, of course, by Dorothea Lange. WPA and all. I almost took a house near the Grand Coulee Dam, built for workers in the 1930s. It was beautiful and perched just right to see the lake created. The foundation of the house, however was rotting away. A metaphor? Or just a shitty place to buy?

And nah, that's not me, that's Rainier Maria Rilke, a deep fellow, I heard. And this? This is a prelude to Pasternak, who speaks beautiful paragraphs about Rilke. Boris was an efficient writer and, you'll see, eloquent.

I'm going to heaven in a ground pea shell.

I've been outside watering my yard. I have to admit it's a relaxing chore, standing in my yellow monkey pajamas, spraying a shower of water over good stuff what grows on the ground. It's just water, coming out of an old green hose. I should confide that I bought myself a new nozzle at the weekend. The other one was leaking and getting me wetter than the grass. It's an $11.49 version of a new party dress. And goddamn if I don't love it.

I don't have any money. I've mentioned that, yeah? A few weeks ago, I applied for a job working a couple of nights a week in the grocery store. I didn't get the job. I didn't even get an interview. I see the manager hired her boyfriend. They were in the newspaper the other week, in the police blotter, after some hullaballoo at their house, a few doors away from mine. I had thought I was a shoo in, but apparently they went with someone with a little more domestic violence experience. If I asked you to be a reference, you can stand down.

I took a nap tonight. It wasn't a luxury. I haven't slept in a couple of nights. Look down there. The bare bulb? Still burning. It's symbolic, or just fucking ugly. I can't bring myself to hang up some old raggedy ass dark blanket by pushpins. I have pretty sheers and that's the way it's going to be, buster. My neighbor hasn't been home now in at least a day and a half. Her son-in-law, meaning the 26-year-old boy who knocked up her 18-year-old daughter, was walking the dog. I asked if she was coming home. He said no. I said, I can't sleep with the light on, is there any way you can leave it off? Apparently not. He wants people to think someone is there, he said. I was going to suggest they water the lawn once in awhile, but for some people, nothing screams Home, Sweet Home like a bare bulb and some shitty brown grass.

My 80-year-old neighbor, Herb, must have seen some activity down here, because he was tapping on the door post-haste. He brought me "Mr. Blister." Seriously, that's its name. It's some heater thing that warms up the glazing compound one uses when replacing panes of glass, which is one of my projects. It's called "Mr. Blister," Electric Paint Remover. "Mr. Blister" is old and has one of those cords that used to light on fire. You know, stripe-y? I can also use it to take off difficult blistered paint. Let me tell you this: it was made in America. In Plainville, Connecticut, to be specific. Some people know I have a fondness for Connecticut. Cos of the drum kits. And the power tools. I want to play with Mr. Blister. Would it be really bad if I went outside now?

Herb drives around town in a golf cart. He just repainted it. It's fuel efficient. The impregnating boy drives a big black truck from his house to my neighbor's. They live precisely four and a half houses away. I am sorry not to have pity on people who drive; I do admit I am hoping they start having some common sense when it comes to wasting fossil fuels. (God fucking dammit stop driving every minute.) This is easy to say because I cannot afford a car or insurance or gas. I never have been fluid in this regard. And? The last car I had I burned the engine cos I never checked the oil; it was a 1972 Volkswagen.

I've been watching Mad Men on recommendation from a friend. I think he was in advertising once. If you ask me, it's kind of crap. Throw a bunch of one-liners at three martini lunches and put a tight dress on the girl and call it a night. Nice work if you can get it. And if you get it? Won't you Western Union me $150? Baby wants a t-bone and some chives on her taters. And by taters, I mean taters.

I don't know about this political stuff. Four years ago, I decided to take a long nap. It's hard for me to say more than that about the state of the world. It really is. What's there to do, short of grabbing a sharp machete and a really good bean burrito? Here's a secret: I was a big Lord of the Rings (movie) fan. It was a surprise to me, too, believe me. Not to sound gay, but that heroic shit inspired me. Inspired me to get more popcorn, it's true, but it was organic popcorn. In the movie, they said "This is a good day to die!" and they didn't mean, "Let's die for oil and then the rest of us go back to our hovels with one leg and a can of Diet Pepsi! We can drink vodka and Red Bull from the first to the fifth!" I honestly don't know if there is any solution or solution or, um, solution to try to combat these evils. It doesn't seem like it to me. I don't really believe in evil. I believe in horrible. And Clorox Wipes. More on that later.

I'm not here in this lickle town to skulk and yearn for days of yore and justice. I'm here cos I kept getting fired and evicted and my mom bought me a house she could afford. And because sometimes, it feels like the only thing I can do is water my plants and pitchfork some steer manure when I'm feeling wealthy. Me, the water, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

And nah, that's not me. That's Mary Lou Lord. I heard she even pawned her old milk cow. Damned Freddie Mac!