Pig and farm report

I have been giddy with sun lately. And dresses. And punctuation. I planted more blueberries two bushes named Chandler. I bought them at the little bait&tackle gas station store where they sell worms and triscuits and fishing and crabbing licenses. And blueberry bushes for ten dollars each. They sell at nurseries for at least $30.00 each. The lilacs are out on the island and are beginning to open on my deck. Lilacs make me giddy and stupid. Lilacs make me slather myself with fancy girl perfume and wear my tiara to the grocery store. Lilacs make me dance. Lilacs are the smooth rock hidden in my boot the secret to my creaky hips in the morning. I wanted nothing more than to be the famous Lilac Queen or one of the famous Lilac Princesses of Spokane when I was growing up. Of course I was not. I have grown weirdly nostalgic for the smell of city busses and lilacs in a vase or purloined lilacs in my arms. They grew everywhere when I was a girl. I thought they were wild flowers but they are in fact intentional. When I was a girl my stepfather told me that if I ever saw lilacs growing randomly in the woods or in some deserted old place it meant someone lived there once and loved there enough to plant those gorgeous flowers intentionally. In other lesser news I titrated my dose of carbamazepine down so quickly that I got a sudden reminder that I am in fact still fucking crazy. So I have titrated back up by 100 mgs. It’s exhausting and typing it out here makes me want to cry. I keep thinking if I’m good enough if I’m fragrant enough if I’m princessy enough I will eventually outgrow my bipolar diagnosis. In fact I have spent this past year thinking I had outrun it. It’s hard to think about in the guts because it harkens to giddy it harkens to scrounging it harkens to dolphins by the jetty it harkens to accepting love it harkens to that lost world where I lived without a bathtub but a turquoise swimming pool was there and I swam in it every single night under the busiest flight path of the airport. The way the scent of lilacs can knife you in the belly or lift you clean up into the sky without warning.