waiting for the wine fly

What to say about the debacle south of the border? What kind of woman would vote for that man? Well, we know the answer, that's easy - a Republican woman whose loyalty to her party is stronger than her loyalty to half the planet.

Makes me heartsick, but then, there's so much else to decry, including what's going on in my own province. So let's move along, because beating the breast does no good. Though here's a tiny bit more breast-beating: Wayson just read a few pages of the memoir, the ones I thought I'd fixed, and told me it's slow and passive, not active, that as always I am summarizing, not writing vividly. He read some of the later section, which I know works, and loved it. The beginning still does not work. Is it time to give up yet?

Yesterday was hot but today it's chilly, the furnace is on, and I've pulled out the cucumber plants and the kale (which was a waste of space, I hardly ate any kale; I love vegetables but just cannot find much to like about kale.) "Get flu shot" is on my list of things to do, along with "See A Star is Born, Fahrenheit 11/9 and The Wife." Got to get caught up on my movies - so many good ones to see and more coming along, not to mention documentaries.

My children are in B.C. for their grandmother's funeral, and my brother and the doctor at her facility think my aunt too is on her way out. She told her friend May, who was visiting yesterday, that she wants to die. It's horrible to be so helpless, to not know how to make things better for her. My brother and her friends are doing their best, and I am monitoring from here, feeling terrible and mourning.

What can I say that's cheerful? Had a wonderful class at U of T yesterday and at home last evening. And I'm reading E.B. White's One Man's Meat; he is so wise and funny, such a beautiful writer, it's like a cool, calm hand on a fevered brow to read his words. Here is a tiny bit which is well-known:
When a glass of wine is poured a wine fly appears promptly - but I never see him at any other time and wonder where he keeps himself in the meanwhile and what he does for a drink. 

Here he is describing "an old tumbledown barn in a run-out field encircled by woods and overlooking a small secluded cove. Lilacs were in bloom by the old cellar hole, and a few old apple trees stood guard over the secrets of other days. The world stood still here in this peaceful and mysterious place, which seemed perfect for a tryst or a double suicide."

Who else can jolt you from complacency like that? The world needs more E.B. White. And I need to pour a glass of wine and wait for the fly.