Heavy feeling this morning, wanting to be allowed to breathe my own air. Fuzziness over where I am trying to get to and whether or not I’m going alone. Wanting to hang on to things I know I can’t, frustration at myself for not fitting onto a path that would just let be. Without the tools to break down the divide, flying off on tangents of ways to get out. And questions, Why can’t I just be content? Will I ever be?

When I am sad like that I am impossible to deal with and I feel bad that he has to speak to me at all. I just want to lie curled up so I can’t see out, be warm so I don’t have to move, be quiet because I can’t stop the thinking and I can’t make sense of anything else. Bless his little cotton socks, he tries, but I know that there isn’t anything he can do but let it pass. If I could pull out slides from my mind and let him look it could only then make sense. His patience is a beautiful thing.

My comfort comes with jasmine tea and soft boy hips, sprayable white gesso and Kate Havnevik, emails from South Africa and cinnamon scented candles, guerilla projects and KD.

And so I sit in peace at last, obsessing about Rimbaud and Woolf, considering a foray into poetry or fetish photography or both, sniffing air that smells of tea, aerosol paint fumes and nag champa, thinking that might not be a great combo because Mumma is never happy when I blow things up…

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