Wednesday, July 6, 2016—And Brownie did indeed lay an egg yesterday. When I noticed I’d been worrying about her, I decided my worry made it worse for her, so turned my attention to the concrete dock steps, even though it was mid-day and cooking. I hauled self and tools to the end of the dock and shoveled three bucketfuls of mud into the wheelbarrow. I hacked oyster and clam shells and barnacles off the bottom steps, feeling surprisingly good about this heavy work in white hot heat. The primary motivator was the realization that it would provide left-sided upper body exercise, and help strengthen my left wrist. This wrist remains bent and atrophied from a break two years ago.
Once I began shoveling, though, the exercise provided so much more, including memories and associations to the river from my earliest childhood years. Maybe lifetimes of memories. I always imagine Moses as a baby, floating up a river maybe like this one. I think of Creek Indians, the river’s slow pace, the easy rhythm of living off the land. Yesterday, the tide was going out and low enough that water only covered the bottom step. I saw ripples of shrimp and minnows and thought about going shrimping.
With steps cleared, this will be more feasible. I wondered if this is now against the law. I understand scooping mud and using it for gardening is now a no-no, but all was quiet yesterday, with government spies in airplanes and helicopters off harassing other people.
When I had all the mud I could haul, and a bit of sunburn, I brought the wheelbarrow to the east side of the deck and dumped it between buried concrete blocks and lawn (weeds) next to tomatoes that are thriving. The plan is to extend the length of the plot along the front of the deck, where I can water easily and have water run away from the house.
I imagined being a slave on a rice plantation in the old South, a life I was comfortable enough with, because the water was cool and the work hard but paced like the river itself. I imagined being a woman in that life, with healing skills and sunny disposition that kept me safe.
I thought about myself as a true scientist, a life scientist, who makes discoveries through trial and error, going my own way, not calling attention to what I’m doing. I’m not sure of what I’m doing, for one thing, and I don’t trust others’ judgment or discretion.
While working with the mud, I imagined today’s techno-geniuses looking to profit by expropriating my ideas, saddling them with rules, and ruining the fun for me. I thought about Machu Picchu and how all prehistoric and locally/land-based cultures made use of what they had. They worked with nature instead of against her. The land owned them instead of the other way around.
The mass migrations created by shipping and its sequelae–because of dissatisfaction with treasures close to home—seems so sad and unnecessary, I thought. The Cosmic Improv Group—that gaggle of hallucinations inside my imagination and unheard by others— told me this has been necessary to show others what I’ve always known. The CIG likes to watch me work and give advice and support.
I want to experiment with river mud to learn or re-learn its properties, not only in gardening, but in building, too. I don’t intend to ask government permission, or even to talk much about what I’m up to, unless they’re willing to help with the shoveling. I really am creating a fertilizer factory, in a left-handed sort of way.
The idea of a “left-handed way” opens a “new cell in my brain,” as my left-handed mother would say. My approach is “backwards” to some, but it is also yin-motivated, as I consider that the left is my yin side.
I imagine that if I discover the many useful properties of mud—or re-discover them—the asset plunderers and money exporters will seek to own and control, and I will be squeezed out, once again.