Today i did a writing prompt about the things I tend, what i turn towards, how I tend. I’m sharing it here, because I like the change of pace, and the soup is really smelling up the place now, as well as the bacon that I had to add… ah, bacon. you make my heart sing.
I have added to and edited here, though this news will break the hearts of those who forgive me my ways. (capitalization is just not a thing, for instance.)
- Today was the day of the oil change. The making-sure the car makes it through the winter, though i suppose there is no guarantee against calamity, or trees.
- I’m in love with the word TEND. I took a class called that, just for its name… only to run out of money in the end… but i lose a bit of my bonechill every time i see her writings. Women are pretty fucking great. of course it is a woman. Tend? c’mon.
- I’m making a soup today as well, which is not a completely normal happening, but it will be potato when it is done with its time in the crock. I’ve been working at a farm stand and am thrilled to say that my reason, ‘to be closer to food, to cook more real food’, has come to pass. (also, people. and payment) These potatoes are almost fully personified in my mind. They are giving me their pleasure, and sustenance and i am chopping them to chunks and bits. (look away.) I also peeled their skin off.
- The things i turn toward are colored amorphous blobs. Memories, smells… sounds or tactilities, these are the scenes i go towards. I’m so fully centered in my body, but there is all this space around the molten core of me, and i seem to want to fill it with yarn and sweaters knit by people who can, food smells, tacos… you see. It is escaping my typing fingers, what it is i tend towards, how it is i move into and out of the world outside my quiet body. I don’t even know how i have sex, out there, but i do… every once in a while i get a glimpse of a spark shooting off into the darkness, my fling towards connection.
- i feel so insular, my molten core bringing all the self-sufficiency. (hello, they say no man is an island. but what of woman? )
- I tend to warmth, there are hats, there are blankets and there are never NOT those things. We have wood for the stove, we have pasta for the storms. It is always tended to. Always.
- I’m not able to, or rather, it taxes me too dearly to slow down my writing brain. It must flow as it does. I tend to fly.
- More colors to tend to in this dying light of Fall. the book i haven’t read, that i probably need to read, maybe. It is green-ly bound, and yellow at the heart. I think my chakras are interested by this.
- I tend to personify.
- I tend to leave space, for all the meaning and the worth that come from another. The shared experience that really isn’t. And is, too.
- A season of tending outdoors has ended, and the wrapping up of it into storage, decay, decomposition, is a slow decay in an of itself. I start off strong. Always curious to see what is left to survive the elements, or not. That one hulahoop left by the shed. You see.