January Jonesing.

  • I’m sharing a prompt series by Isabel Abbott today.
  • there is something in her own writing that makes me go and go and go. So here it is. And it will be.
  • I’ve changed the chair I sit and do nothing in, all this nothing I write, and for money too. The kids think I do nothing since I spend the day sitting. And there is the phone. But the chair… brought down the collection spot from my bedroom and now I am sitting entirely differently in the same exact spot. I worry I will not collect the 13 year old body the same way for our morning hug, but so much is changing, I could always move. And wouldn’t that be something…
  • My body has to shift again, to unpack its shape from what was, and re-align. My elbow presses against the armrest as I type now, and I wonder if I will need more pillowing. My humor can’t help but snigger at myself. more pillowing? me? Snicker, more than snigger. Such ugly sounds, both. I chose neither. And will chortle at myself instead. Imagine me now, in my new old chair, chortling as I type, all soft and squishy.
  • Its Wednesday. I was woken by the dog this morning, as usual, but since the kids are away, as usual, I took my time waking up. I rolled, I pet the dog, I peed. No hushed run down the stairs, no ‘they need their precious minutes’… and I carried a chair down the stairs. Someone, please, someone, notice. Tell me I did a good job. Tell me.  The silence echoes sometimes. And I’m just watery today.
  • I’ve got these two new plants that I splurged on last time I had splurge-will. Splurge is definitely relative. They are plants, after all. But I watch them every day, they are slow growers and only want indirect light, and I watch them sit in direct morning light and wonder if I am slowly killing them, or if they are happy for the challenge. Is there anything which hates the morning light? I mean, hate? For morning lights? What about me? Am I being slowly killed or happy for the challenge? Fuckingfuckingfucking.
  • I had my tattooed man, I did, so many months ago.  It was beautiful to touch his skin. And then no contact, and then ‘wanna fuck?’ and I chose differently. I can’t do that anymore. I’m an old woman somedays. I want more than the bodies.  Covid is aging me, aging me, aging me. This is a level of grownup I do not want, and only vaguely understand. Or maybe I just do not want him, or that. But both.
  • My toes are cold today. In the wild freedom of waking on my own schedule, I forgot socks. I put on an entire run of clean, real clothing and peed when I coughed. So there. So there is a reason to go up to the bedroom again. Socks and an entire replacement of clothing. If I put on my socks then it will be boots and I will have no excuse not to take out the trash, feed the chickens and do the things. I’m so tired of the things. I have an ottoman to carry, and a window to cover in plastic. And two thousand words to write, at least, and I’m here instead, talking about my toes.
  • The whole day spreads before me and I’m focused on a perceived misuse of this thirty. What a fucking mind blow. I don’t even know what to say to myself, who is this? Why do I keep bumping into her? Why does she rate carrying an ottoman upstairs as more important than the writing that has kept my spirit whole these past three months? Why is she even here?
  • Oh man, these details. My cold toes. The woodstove in front of me, the black black black of the woodstove and her pipe. On the side, its brand, Vigilant. It better than any affirmation I tell you. Everyday.
  • The puzzle table is full of a new one, and I dread my kids’ realization that it is pretty hard, and will cause more frustration than joy. And I don’t even like looking at it in the beginning stages, the freaking edges, man.
  • There are a lot of Christmas things that will stay up and here through the darkest months. The tree. The stuffed gnome. The lights, the lights the lights. I’ll fight you . there is not enough coffee. (if I fought you, I would lose, if that helps.) I just want the rage to have a place to go. To feel something, to have a wound that is visible, that can be treated. A start. And a finish.

Love love, and yes, even with the love, I’ll fight you.

thats the mood.


The plants. The light they are not supposed to have. And a cowbell behind them. Because.

Leave me your words! thoughts! sweat, blood, and tears not really needed but okay, if you want... :)

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