Have I mentioned that…

Have I mentioned that there's a cemetery only a few blocks away from Kev's apartment? I walked through it yesterday, on the way back from signing the papers on my new place. I decided to take the apartment with the sunroom; it's big enough to be my study, though when winter comes I may decide to move the computer to a room that's cheaper to heat. I just fell in love with the idea of sitting there surrounded by plants, music playing in the living room, typing quietly. (I also talked to Jeff at Puritan, and it looks like they'll probably buy that last novella I wrote for them, which will make up most of the difference in rent).

The cemetery is beautiful. I had been reading as I walked up the streets to it, but I stopped after entering. I started reading the headstones, wondering about the people. It startled me how many of them said simply a name, dates, and then the term 'Father' or 'Mother'. Of course, it's not surprising. Your children are the most likely to be the ones burying you, and this is how they know you. But it disturbed me a little, thinking that that was how they ended up defined. On the other hand, I don't know that a list of roles would have been any better: Wife, Lover, Mother, Sister... I guess if it were me, I'd rather just have my name.

Heh. I just had an idea for the future. Headstones would come marked with web addresses, so that if you wanted to follow the link, you could find a memorial web page...I know, it sounds terribly tacky now, but maybe someday, that'll be the standard. Who knows? It would certainly make the historians' jobs easier, though I suppose there's still the question of uncovering what is truth, and what is just what the page author wanted you to believe...

Some of the stories are so sad. One little family cluster has three gravestones; one for the father, who died in his forties. One for the two infant children, unnamed. And one for the mother, who died at nineteen. She didn't die in childbirth; the kids died one after another, and then she died the following year. Was it illness? An accident? Depression? She died in 1944...maybe her husband had gone away to the war, and after losing her babies, she just pined away. Poor girl...

I feel like a ghoul, feeding on these imagined stories. But I'm going to enjoy walking through the cemetery.

I stayed up late last night. Watched Chasing Amy again, and worked myself into a bit of a state. Wrote Kev a long jumbled letter; poor guy. Hope he can make sense of it. I feel fine now; tell me, why don't I go to bed early? I KNOW that my mood tends to dip sharply down if I stay up late. I suppose in a way, it's interesting. My perspective changes so sharply, and I guess I try to find truth in there somewhere. But it sure ain't no fun.

I did achieve something useful last night; I started practicing again. Both the recorder and the new guitar. Now that I no longer have access to a piano, I really appreciate having an instrument I can (theoretically) sing along with. I managed to find a copy of Streets of London on the web, and started working on that. It had a few new chords (D7 and G7), but neither were too difficult. I'm still having trouble with my blurry F chord, and I can't play close to at tempo yet, but that's what practicing's for, neh? We'll see how it goes. Now, if I can just find a copy of Stan Rogers' Northwest Passage that uses beginner chords and doesn't require a capo (which I don't have yet).

Well, I think I'm going to go out and putter with the plants a bit. I brought some clippings from the garden at the House (Vietnamese coriander, opal basil, rosemary). The coriander quickly put out many roots, and David planted it a few days ago. The basil has only one, but it's looking so peaked that I think I'd best get it into soil today. I'm fairly dubious about the rosemary; not a single rootling to be seen. Ah well.

Then back to reading Columbine's new novel, which I am thoroughly enjoying so far. Here's hoping he kept it up! And I hope y'all are having pleasant Sundays too.