It seems my exasperating Monday flowed into an irritating Tuesday. I have a new neighbor and she smokes. Plus, she burns the most ghastly fruity incense. I feel like I’m living in an ashram. It’s disgusting. And she’s not going to put it out, burning it all the time is apparently her gig. My asthma is loving it. My migraines are thrilled!
What is it with the universe? This is California, the land of no smoking. Why do the few have to live near me?! I know it seems crazy, but I’ve just this liking for air. Clean, fresh, no smoke, no nirvana burning, Kama Sutra, Hare Krishna fumes. I’m funny that way.
I want to breathe like I still live in the mountains, streamline air, above 7,000 feet.
The whole thing makes me uneasy in my own home. It’s like when an earthquake hits. Suddenly the ground isn’t as firm and stable as we once thought. It feels scary and impermanent. In this case, I fear my landlord will be vengeful, because I got mad againabout a new tenant. (What can I say? He has lousy taste in tenants. I’ve lived here for quite a while now, quite a long while. And I take care of this place in his continuous absence. He only comes here when he smells money to be made. Other than that the building must be on fire for him to appear.
I dream of my own home. MY own home. I like the secure sound of that. And I want a wall around the whole property line, 8 feet high. Zephyr can run free. I can garden to my hearts content and no one can come in uninvited. Sanctuary. Truly.
Meanwhile, I’ve got mango scented smoke and yesterday’s humiliating wounds to nurture. Tis the season to hide, if only would rain. If anyone out there knows a rain dance, I’d like one please. Thanks, d.