A Really Stinking Compost

These days are full. I’ve been seeing dear friends, enjoying the wonders of Cold Canyon again with other dear friends, getting things done. But one of those is not, alas, my novel. I have felt discouraged since the demise of my pen and while that might seem to be just an excuse, I’ve written little since. I’m not giving up, but I can’t get 50,000 words written by the end of November…

Mary dragged over two months’ worth of kitchen scraps from across the street, fetid and rank. She kindly dumped them on my compost pile, where they have attracted so many flies that the black phoebe sitting on the edge needn’t even take wing to get her fill. For a compost maniac such as I’ve turned out to be, this was like winning the lottery.

I turned the compost this evening in the dark, a stinky job, pondering on pens (it’s my niece’s birthday and my present to her was her first fountain pen, a pink girlie job made by Kukuxumusu in Spain, along with purple cartridges and a purple Clairefontaine notebook) and on the World Bank (o evil institution) and on manzanita bark and on small falcons.

A stench like this gets you right in touch with what’s really going on. In your head and otherwise…