I've been composting for several weeks now in one of those big black plastic bins designed especially for the purpose. It's fun (and compulsive, as I scour the kitchen and yard for compostables that might be going to waste). When I was about 12, my mom had an open compost pile that was always full of these segmented maggoty-looking things that disgusted me to the point of fascination. I'd stare at them and think, "What if you had to stick your hand in there?" Now they are present in large numbers in my own compost pile, and I learned that they are soldier fly larvae (I don't advise clicking that link if you dislike squirmy things), which are not only harmless but such excellent composters that they sometimes drive earthworms right out of the pile. And now I can stick my hand in there, not just without fear, but without even being particularly grossed out. After all, they work for me.

They're also said to make excellent bait, should I ever wish to take up my short-lived fishing habit again, but that seems pretty cold-blooded: "Here, turn my kitchen and garden waste into compost. Thanks! Now I'm going to reward you by sticking a hook through your body and feeding you to a speckled trout!" Ah well; specks probably wouldn't hit them anyway, and ain't nuttin worth eatin but trout.

[ETA: The adult soldier fly is a predator and gardener's ally, so this is an excellent bug all around.]

I'm not one of those folks who collects potential titles for my autobiography, but the heading of this entry does strike me as apt ...

This morning we threw open the front doors of Our Lady of Good Counsel, let the sunlight in for the first time in a week, and said a "healing rosary" together, which is pretty much all we are able to do since Archbishop Hughes forbade us to hold any services there involving clergy, liturgy, or the Eucharist. About a hundred people were there, including some OLGC parishioners who don't agree with our vigil tactics but still support the church. Though these people are now attending mass at other churches, I was glad to see that they hadn't abandoned us. I'd never really said the rosary except during the St. Rosalie processions in Kenner, but during those people are looking at scenery, chatting, stopping to drink lemonade, and checking Saints scores. I don't think I quite have the hang of it yet, but I've got a couple of books. I do see the immediate purpose of it: it's a kind of meditation or even self-hypnosis, during which -- particularly if you are saying it with a bunch of other people -- shuts out bad life events, mind noise, etc. and allows you to calm the fuck down. That's what it did for me, anyway.

We will be holding this rosary every Sunday at 11:00 AM at Our Lady of Good Counsel, 1235 Louisiana Avenue. The public is welcome, and you will be able to sign up to help with the vigils if you like. In lieu of a collection, we ask that you bring canned goods suitable for our Thanksgiving baskets.

Afterward, my two coordinating co-conspirators and I withdrew to a shady courtyard at PJ's on Magazine and held a furious vigil-scheduling session. The week ahead is actually looking possible.

Then my car swung inexorably toward The Green Parrot and I bought foxgloves and purple basil and marigolds (I don't care if they are supposed to be common; for me, the smell and look of them will always conjure up my great-aunt's mysterious garden) and more pencil cactus and A FRIGGIN' STARFISH CACTUS THAT WILL GROW A STINKING CARRION FLOWER. I couldn't believe it. There they were on the shelf, three of them, one sporting a freakish blossom about seven inches across whose aroma reminded me of a corpse I once saw who'd spent several months in the rough of a golf course. He was dry, flat, and brown, and so was the smell of this flower. Flies buzzed around it. I was tempted to buy that one, but I want to grow my OWN stinking carrion flower. I came home and planted all this stuff and fell into bed with several cats including young Winston*, of whom more later.


*There were supposed to be two kittens coming, but when the parents tried to take the girl, their young daughter dissolved in tears and confessed that she could not live without this cat. Being suckers like us, they let her stay, and I admit I was relieved not to have to introduce a freshly spayed female.

After one month and six (6) visits from delivery/installation crews, we finally got the dryer hooked up ... only to find that the cocksucking 220-volt outlet apparently isn't working. Four out of five outlets in the bedroom are also dead, and I don't think I can hit up the seller for any of the repair expenses, since these outlets passed inspection; something must have gone wrong since then. One of the major reasons I wanted to move into a newly renovated house was to avoid the sort of infuriating and scary electrical problems we had in our old one.

The only thing worse than having a house is not having a house. I think Oscar Wilde said that.

Anyway, Daddy doesn't do laundromats, and Chris has enough work washing his own kitchen-soiled clothes without washing my stuff too, so I am plumbing the dregs of my wardrobe, buying new clothes I don't really need, and sometimes even wearing dirty things that don't seem to stink too badly. What a glamorous life I lead.

Ah well, at least the new furniture came, and looks beautiful in our living room. I can hardly believe we're actually going to have a central place to hang out. The living room in our old house was a cold and inhospitable space with a badly sloping floor, so we spent most of our time in the bedroom. If we had company, we had to sit around the breakfast room table, which wasn't particularly comfortable. Now we have a lovely leather sofa and two recliners. It almost makes me wish I believed in declawing. We chose the most durable fabrics we could find, but eventually, inevitably, they will wreck everything.

Tomorrow is the St. Bernard Irish/Italian/Isleño parade, but I have already committed to help bake cookies for a St. Joseph's altar. This is my favorite parade with the possible exception of Rex and I can hardly believe I'm going to miss it, but due to having gotten the house, I cannot refuse anything anyone asks me to do for St. Joseph this year. Though the timing is bad, I've never actually helped bake the cookies before, so it should be interesting.

As a reward for reading all this boring house stuff lately, I give you the following passage from The Knife Man, a biography of eighteenth-century anatomist/surgeon John Hunter. There's not much that can make me go "ew" anymore, but this did.

Anatomy was invariably a sensory experience. As well as being subjected to the all-pervading odor of decay, the crackle of the dried membranes, and the need for intense visual inspection, students were urged to feel the textures of the different parts and even to taste the body fluids. Without sophisticated methods of scientific analysis, at a time when microscopes were primitive and visually unreliable, anatomists were forced to depend on their innate senses. Hunter frequently employed his sense of taste in dissection, and he encouraged his pupils to do likewise, as he recorded matter-of-factly: "The gastric juice is a fluid somewhat transparent, and a little saltish or brackish to the taste." And he would even observe, "The semen would appear, both from the smell and taste, to be a mawkish kind of substance; but when held some time in the mouth, it produces a warmth similar to spices, which lasts some time."

It does rather, doesn't it? But rotting corpse jizz ... I ask you.