Humanity

These things.

These are the things I’ve written lately, or said out loud, that I have liked, and liked a lot.

  1. My work life is a pile of feathers.
  2. You can’t actually hold on to anything. Thats the illusion. The struggle is in wanting to hold on, when you can’t, even though it hurts. You can’t. You’re grasping at waves. Whatever it is, its already gone.
  3. My creative life is in a cave in the cliff wall, somehow managing to be dry and warm despite being just meters from a stormy sea.
  4. When I am old, I want the kitchen table to remind me of my children, for my memory to roll easily through the past.
  5. Pick up the phone before it is too late. Call the elderly man who reminds you of your loss. Call his familiar voice and hear an old familiar story. Let it be so. Suck in the things he needs to apologize for and grovel for. He will not and doesn’t need to know he should. It makes no difference now. It just doesn’t. When you imagine all the perfect things said, said to perfection, it still just doesn’t matter, doesn’t change a thing, and somehow, the fact that I am carrying this, even as a fleeting thought, is the image of absurdity.

There it is. A list of somethings rather than nothings. A pile of feathers indeed.

close up shot of a wet feather on the rocks
Photo by Павел Гавриков on Pexels.com
Humanity

The end, my friends.

i should definitely not type this.

However. Tomorrow, they all go back to school, and my work day ratchets right out to fill the space. A whiz-bang.

I’ll be fine. It also happens on a tuesday, when they spend their night at their dad’s. So i will come home to a house that is quiet and empty of all the things. except seedlings, the house is full of seedlings. And i’ve been told the farm is ready to take more of my seedlings, so there will be two locations full of seedlings in a hot minute. So much explosion of growth.

And writing. (i’m not ending it)

I’ve had a really hard time getting my writing job done. really hard. I’m so damn afraid to take a break because I fear never going back. I still owe one and a half books, so I’m tied to it some. BUT goddamn. All I feel is dread about myself, and my inability to lock it down, focus, fit it in, make it work while the kids are home, spend all my spare minutes on it, all that jazz. It is not the feeling I want flourishing right now. It hurts my head.

But what happens if I stop it? If I stop saying I am paid for my words? What then? I feel a blankness descend when I think about a life when I am not talking about it, or playing with a word or two. what the hell man. I’ve painted, and stopped. I’ve grown things and stopped. I’ve quilted and stopped. The constant has been here, this blogging crater I fall into once a week or so. What if I stop writing? Will I curl up and die on the inside? I might. I don’t have a lot of faith in my inner fortitude on this one.

Will I be more upset with myself if I don’t die? Will THAT be the real death? The ability to soldier on without the beauty of the word? The end of it all. the no-spark.

I know. Maybe you can’t follow all that. Its a mood. Like the bookstack I might never get to.

like taxes.

like taxes.

  • love you guys,
  • love love.
selective focus photo of pile of assorted title books
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Pexels.com