I started (very hot) Monday early, watering the garden. I will never do that again without wearing protective clothing; I got really nasty mosquito bites. To get even with Mother Nature, I turned on my tornado of a lawn mower and slaughtered everything over two inches in the yard. Watering here feels like watering Versailles; half an acre feels immense when you’re watering by hand.
Sheba and I played fetch—our way. I throw the ball and she tears after it and then I walk over to her and the ball because she doesn’t do the returning part. But tired her out so I could go into the village for lunch, groceries and more plants. Yes! More plants.
Today’s plan is to clean up another massive load of pinecones from the yard and to work on decorating the fence.
One of my dresses is a tribute to Reena Virk, a Victoria teen who was murdered by two other teens including on psychopath named Kelly Ellard who is, for me, the face of evil. I never met Reena but for some reason her death rally affected me; hence the dress.
Yesterday, her long-suffering mother died. Suman Virk and her husband became anti-bullying advocates after the death of her daughter. I admired her as I grieved for her, so yesterday was a sad day.
I watched The Man in the Orange Shirton Masterpiece Theatre(PBS) on Sunday night. It began with a warning; it was the most sexually provocative material I’ve ever seen on Masterpiece. And it was gay sex. Such a production was longoverdue.
I’m not a gay activist but I’ve long felt emotionally distant from PBS. They sell themselves as the public network and take pride in their inclusivity but they buckled to anti-gay public pressure when they aired Tales of the Cityin 1994 and only broadcast the first season. Now PBS has integrity again.
It was pretty good except I am now officially sick of pretty actors.
Frances de la Tour plays the mother of one of the men. I find her fabulous in everything she does. Is it because she’s a good actor? No. I don’t think so. I think I see her as believable in everything because she looks so normal—so average, so real.
Everyone wants diversity in casting when it comes to race, but I want a movement to get real with faces and bodies. Bring on the real people!
I loved this. It’s from The New Yorker(May 28, 2108). It’s titled Encouragement for Struggling Creativesand it’s by Riane Konc.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
And: “There’s no “I” in “team.” But there is an “I” in the questions “Is anyone going to come to my one-woman show entitled “Pearls Before Wine’?”
“And the answer is no.”