I went through one old journal, the one i was using for a current project when I realized its first pages were of two years past. there is little to no chronology in this thing, and its gotten a few pages of work notes thrown in, as well as notes i took while listening to something regarding cybersecurity, so it was a while back now. (i still can’t look at my old blog. sigh)
and i am here to share. I highlighted with the marker i had at hand, so the notebook itself has a new layer of color, which makes me happy.
here we go, favorite to possibly irrelevant… writing highlights…
what a woman is most interested in is INTEGRITY. (oh man. yes.)
endure. endure. endure. the best and most holiest of words.
hands covered in oil pastel
rattletrap of daily life
expectation has never done me any favors
i’m able to shut off an old memory, in a healthy way, recognizing it for an echo of familiarity rather than a re-hash.
what if i’m not found on the map?
water is not clean, ever. it is a carrier of things.
as beaches go, these are the males of the species.
Mary Oliver: I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. (god bless god bless)
i was just day to daying and there was nothing beyond the kitchen sink.
the richness I give because of the marrow of my bones.
i’m not really doing the write everyday, make a novel challenge in november. shocking, i know. it is already the 4th, and my intention was to write every day all month, just for myself and from that writing, glean something worthy of sharing.
and then Halloween and the collapse the day afterwards, a day of work and soccerfinals, and willful lounging, and here i am, on the 4th day of November. So I’m re-naming my plan the 4FucksakeNovember writing plan.
4FucksakeNovember. 4FSN. I did write for 20 minutes this morning, which is a great start for me. and here I am here. So doubly delicious.
Here’s a little of it. Its from a prompt by Cynthia Lee, in noticing color… i don’t know why the formatting is off, but lets act like its intentional and seek meaning where we find things of notice.
yeah? There are two 6’s. and I’m leaving it like that. take a deep breath, LSlaT.
1.the yellow lights in my kitchen, only yellow against the turquoise of the walls, the white framing of the doors, all chipped and peeled and damaged by dogs and children alike.
2.the wilderness of color i surround myself with, almost too much, maybe.. Its impossible to see a blank space in this kitchen as i write, the blue and red of the glasses,
3.the purple of the new cleaner for the littlest’s first ear piercings. Ah, the life she has ahead of her.
4.the boy who pierced her ears was perhaps the most flamboyant person she has ever met in real life. It was fun to watch a person living in flame brushing against this formed and unformed small buttery redhead.
5.the shiny green of my bomber jacket, that all my kids say makes me look huge. And they’ve all tried to wear it to school. Even the freshman. Because mom is a big-bellied badass.
6. Pink sofa in the kitchen.. i’m going to sit in it and watch the fire while i write this winter. It will be the first window that i cover in plastic this november, because of this plan.
My fingernails are black in favor of Halloween and I think I’m going to keep it like this for a bit. I quite like the drama. And it makes me laugh how much pretend i play.
The dishtowels have bright yellow bursts on them. I made porkroast with giant chunks of orange carrot in its midst last night. None of the kids understand why carrots must be included, until i point out the colorscheme involved.
Memory is a little constant this month, a little too much. And i see it in the shadows of the other rooms in the morning, that lurking presence. well, less lurk than hover. It is here, so much.
The gold peeking from the dogs mouth as he assaults another plastic doodad from a kid collection, that gold he should not have, that gold i am glad he is assaulting, as it means there is one less doodad in the house. Nothing gold can stay.
emblem of fall, isn’t it? nothing gold can stay. emblem? metaphor? symbol?varsity letter jacket. noone writes ‘nothing gold can stay’ in country rustic decor. i guess that means what it means. no one wants that reminder.
There’s been a fox in my yard lately, sniffing around my chicken ladies. They are safe, particularly at night, if, in fact, they are in their coop. But. and there is a large BUT, they don’t know enough to stay there. And I’m torn. Do I tell them? Do I cage them? Am I responsible for derailing their one wild life?
Its hard out there, for sure. Being solo in the wilderness is not a long story. Predators are, in fact, designed to defeat your precious freedom.
(I’m not an idiot. I’ve made a pen for my ladies, as they are the meagre survivors of a brutal season of bird, fox, automobile that affected their ability to safely free range. I’ve never seen anything like it. I buried a lot of chicken hit in the road. WTF. )
(and, far far too many jokes.)
but as i consider my life as a grown woman, and what freedom i have to choose… the gross amount of privilege i enjoy, the way in which i am forever tied to my family of brood, i am highly aware of the foxes out there.
Some of it is as simple as feeling shame for living on alimony and child support. Its an entirely social construct, a pen, if you will, and i can live in it while throwing myself against the walls, or not.
some of it is as complicated as a new man in my life. LM still. but how much do i rely, how much do i allow, how much of merging is a loss? i’m going slow, slow, but these are things and thoughts that are real real.
If Fox has chosen to share its medicine with you, it is a sign that you are to become like the wind, which is unseen yet is about to weave into and through any location or situation. You would be wise to observe the acts of others rather than their words at this time. Use your cunning nature in a positive way; keep silent about who and what and why you are observing.
If i’m to be like the wind, cunning and clever, (and silence is, frankly, already out the door… ) i’m just going to keep on keeping on, watching and waiting and letting it ride.
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.
In fall, things flame before they die. There is Fire! Pain! Dramaaaaaa. And then wintry death.
I’m on my phone, typing with a flashing digit of my own. It’s all surreal, how many changes we’ve incorporated fairly seamlessly. (technology, divorce… )And the changes we cannot seem to absorb? Those are surreal as well. (technology, divorce…)
its another day now, i’m not on the phone anymore, which is a blessing. i’m 100% positive I cannot communicate well with it, even verbally.
so here i am.
It is really so clear here, where we have such a fiery fall, that there are these last gasps of glamour, and one strong wind will sweep us into the branch segment of our year. the sticks of winter, the pokey bits.
i’m feeling a little dissociated lately, even the writing i do for myself feels a little flat. i just thought about telling you how my direct line of sight goes to a row of evergreens out the window, so i find it very easy to feel/see/remember green year-round.
and then i stopped myself (obviously i lost that battle, in the end, but the gears all jarred, clang clang clang) because i thought it was too flat, too un-quippy.
Last year i was very caught off-guard by the grief i felt at the fifth Fall since my dad died. This year i’m not caught off-guard but am surprised by how much I feel like crawling into a hole for the month.
and there is nothing I can do about it. The kids keep demanding to be fed. The dog barks, the chickens will just up and die. So there is no hole for me.