How difficult it is, sometimes, moving this body from one place to another, heavily, though thick hot air. How many decisions are made to accomodate its needs.
There is clover in the ivy. I see those small round leaves, hiding --
small dogs
in the summer garden
smelling everything
how they fall
the rose petals
speaking into the emptiness, as if there were someone to hear
I've not been writing, I've not been doing morning pages, I'm dry. I'm not sure what is blocking me -- the heat -- the presence of another person in my house -- things I don't want to write about -- or just the natural cycle of rest & growth, rest & growth --
this day, then another, and another --
A dead squirrel on the path, and I am stricken, and angry. I saw J the other night, with a slingshot -- why kill things? What harm?
Bombs in Mumbai, and I struggle to understand how people are brought to this, the slaughter of innocents, in the name of some divinity -- to be the cause of grief also too vast for me to comprehend. A world full of wonders, and this, I suppose, is one of them -- that we do such things to one another.
D. interested in our/ her past, which seems so far to me, so vague. Are we born, or made? It seems to me that I was just beginning then [in my teens] -- that most of who/ what I am, has come since. Are we to think we are the products of a father's abuse; a mother's indifference; a grandmother's care -- and nothing since? Perhaps we are -- at least in part -- a product of our own artistry?
No?
Perhaps those who keep hold of the thread of their lives feel otherwise; they can follow it back, see its source. But for me, long hidden trails and turns into darkness, or brilliance. In places, the thread is broken, or lost, or seems to belong to someone else, some other life --
So that I begin again, and again.
I think of sitting on the floor, yarn stretched between my hands, pulled by my grandmother, rolled into a fat ball.
I've been tired, very solitary, very leave-me-alone. I feel that snap-back, that release, that let-down that happens when there's no more demand to be present, to be chipper, to respond.
It's heating up again. Two or three days, then some relief, then heat again. I suspect this is what the future will be like: heat, extemes, and surprising storms. I am filled with -- weighted with -- lethargy. Even eating requires management, so I make do with pretzels and yogurt. The rubber band has snapped; I'm limp, broken, useless.
I dream I am in a large, decrepit house. A bomb is ticking down; the world is ending. I am on the phone with X, we want to be together at the last moment -- his brusque, abrupt goodbye.
Some Rights Reserved
At least you wrote stuff down, I pretty let everything go, with the wind taking it away. Well I reget it later on. No I wrote this stuff down before. But then again, writing stuff down does show that I was alive and feeling something for that day not being dead.
Oh well Steptember will be here in 17 days. Thursday when I'm at work, stamping the next day's date card. For the yellow card, I'll be stamping Set 01 06 and I won't groaning either.
Opps I was rambling again, sorry about that. Love what you posted.
Posted by: Cathy | 15 August 2006 at 06:34 PM
"Things I don't want to write about".....Hmmm, maybe you should..perhaps that is the block...?
Posted by: Niki | 21 August 2006 at 11:41 AM