What better time to try writing than the eve before my 32nd revolution? I tried a lot through the weeks, unable to follow-through. Unable to hit publish the quickly typed, no-rough-draft bullshit I force myself to write every once and a while. Before my child wakes up. Before my spouse gets home. In between meals and play-time.
What can I say that hasn’t been said before? It’s been a solitary year. I am having a harder time to connect with other humans than I have in other periods of my life. I haven’t painted as much. Mostly sober, happy, normal, focused on family and survival and planting and not much else.
I am not motivated to have a job right now. Which sucks, because I could also most definitely use the money. I hate this feeling, having always poured so much of myself into work for so long. And the stability. Earth feels like she is screaming for help and throwing one hell of a tantrum after another trying to tell us self absorbed human beings to please, please stop. I live where I live for the first time.
This means to me that I linger within a small radius around my residence and use very little gas and time to explore outside of it. I will say hello to anyone else in this radius. I will plant things here. I have taken notice to the trash on the ground, and kept it clean. I can locate the fruit trees, on public or private property.
It feels very nice to be able to slow down my life so that I can notice these things. How many new bees and spiders live in the flowers I planted. The faint scent of dahlias in the morning. Marigolds and coarse calendula leaves. tossing seeds in neglected lots. Litter management. Getting to know the neighborhood cats and dogs and children.