I. I Journal Jammed yesterday and though I was pretty quiet (very heartstricken of late, apologies), I did make something pretty kickin’ even though I wasn’t feeling very ‘inspired’.

The first one was the actual spread, and the second one was made on the page I was using as a palette. I love working that way because I get more bang for my buck and there’s no paint left behind.

II. I blew a lot of bubbles yesterday.

I keep hoping the dogs will get into it, but they are completely disinterested. Oh well.

III. Space and renovations. Big fucking hammer. Twin stuff. The tender way he pulls my chosen name out of his pocket once in a while and offers it to me with love. Hope springs eternal. Etc. #cryptic

IV. The thing about planting seeds is that it is such an enormous act of faith. You put these little things that look like nothing in pots of dirt and you water and wait and water and wait and maybe something happens and maybe nothing happens. 

Most of the time, at least my gardening friends tell me, something happens. I am not so sure. I am side-eyeing these little pots and hoping something is going on in there but highly doubting it and when I get my first sprout I swear I might cry because yes this is a metaphor for something.

Of course, it is.

Everything is a metaphor for something.

I want these seeds to sprout. I want my faith to be rewarded.

V. Alone: Tales From The Artic. I finished it yesterday and now I’m like WHAT NOW FFS I CANNOT BE ALONE WITH MY THOUGHTS FOR ONE SECOND WITHOUT LOSING MY MIND.

VI. So the search for a new series is on. Or maybe I’ll rewatch The Fall because hanging out with this woman might just be the thing right now.

VII. I have a class to attend today at noon and a support group to attend tonight at seven, so that’s today, and I’m okay with that. In before and in between these things, work has been happening and will happening and I’m okay with that, too. See above re: a moment alone with my thoughts = eternal primal screaming.

VIII. I found this poem that I’d forgotten I’d written in my memories and it made me cry because it’s good and it’s fucking true.

You Make It Your Own

You think of these things,
smudge bowl,
the fire
you think
you might like to tend
by yourself,
for yourself,
As some kind of tragedy,
As though your hand,
striking the match,
your eyes,
your own senses,
are not enough.
And then a night comes on
as strong as nights do
when the earth turns toward autumn
and you stamp your foot against the damp earth
and say to the dew-soaked gloaming
‘The mist is as much mine
to bear
as any one’s
and so is mine
the power to banish it
with match,
and candle,
and light, and heat.
So, there.’
You strike the match
and maybe it takes a while,
and maybe it takes
a hundred matches,
but you take
that night in your
own hands,
and for once,
you make it
your own.
IX. I’m making it my own.
X. Silence has always been the way to wound me.

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