Everything is great, wonderful actually, and yet I am surrounded by darkness and hardly a soul is within touching distance. It is always like this for me at this time of year. Often I spend the hols crawling around on the floor crying. Then I go to a party. I expect it now. But it is still dreadful. Candles everywhere today.
Today I am making bath bombs, a Cheryl Wheeler tape for Deeb, and then some tea to drink while i sit with some of my old writing notebooks. Last night, on impulse, before the three parties I attended, I unboxed all my writing notebooks (since age 15) and all the journals of my adult life ( I'm on book 90 now, I think). I glanced through a few, and was amazed at how time itself revises memory. Also how confused I was during times when I wasn't doing what I wanted, what I should have been doing. Vicious cycle.
"I grow like a plant without remorse & without stupidity toward the hours loosened from the day pure & secure as a plant without crucifixion toward the hours loosened from night." — A. Césaire