I am sorry this week sucked. I am always available if you ever need to vent out loud.
I have a file cabinet project to do too. I just haven't been able to get started. I got the coolest unicorn sticker from the library this week! And I checked out a copy of Queen of Snails.
I love the contour drawings, the remixes feel so pop art to me, the repetition of the drawing. It is so cool. I am finding myself wanting to snap pictures for you in the wild.
You can definitely snap pics in the wild - if you snap 3-5 in sequence, they are great fodder. I’m not in the line of people as much anymore. Last time I did this, I was “waiting” more than I do now. Sounds like a cool sticker - and let me know how Queen of Snails is. I had it out last year at one point and read part of it (not a comment on the book that I didn't finish). Thanks for commenting.
Like Laura, I'm delighted by the contour drawings and the repetition of color in the background patterns. Feels like it should become some kind of decal border to wrap around a room.
For a bit (and I'm still not sure-sure), I couldn't tell if the gate was real or metaphorical - but I've landed on it being both. As for the sucking at this (noted above the masked portrait), I suppose the answer is yes only if you have a standard of some sort by which to gauge "this." I'm not aware of one.
I'm sorry you cried, but I'm also glad you did. Feels like it might be important to let some stuff move.
This line strikes me as what we all do everyday: "This is simply a quest that quiets the fear that nothing really matters."
Hugs for being unable to outrun the hurt. Big hugs.
Hello Amy, I understand hard weeks. I think there’s a lot of us having hard weeks. We all have some of the same reasons and a lot of unique ones too. I want to know more about “unfriendable”. It’s an interesting term. I wonder if it means to you what it feels like it means to me.
Thanks, Deb. You are right that we all have reasons and weight we are sorting through and carrying. That word is a complicated one, I guess. I’m curious though that it jumped out. I hope things are well!
I’m sorry about the cruddy week. I, too, cried in the corner of an almost-empty parking lot on Tuesday. It was supposed to feel lighter after, but didn’t. I’ve carried a lot of weight … not just this week … and am opening a door I’ve long thought was closed for good. Not expecting rays of light to greet me but life is too short to keep wondering … pain is a kind of inheritance and I need for it to move through my body so it can pass.
Thanks, Mansi. It sounds like you are working through many things and dealing with a lot both past and present these days. I hope the door you are opening leads to good things.
"“Are we sucking at this?” I asked this week, peering into the fridge.
(Deep down, I think the answer is yes.)"
Oh, yes! so much yes! Strangely, not exactly me this week, and when I say "strangely," I guess I mean "surprisingly," but I know the feeling so well!
I feel so much what you are saying about revisiting old documents. Since my husband moved out, over 5 years ago now, I've been slowly collecting all my old journals and papers from all the various nooks and crannies of my house. They now live, messily piled, on my father's old desk that I paid movers to move into my bedroom, a space I must not have wanted to fill up with these ghosts and memories while my husband and I shared the space. Or maybe it's more true to say that our bedroom didn't feel like a safe place for my words. Who knows. clearly I've hit a vein (thank you!) and there is more to be discovered there. At any rate, after he moved out, I decluttered the shit out of the house. Emptied closets and cleared all the under-bed storage and donated old suitcases and threw away a lifetime of Vick's VaporRub. Every cabinet and closet now has at least one empty shelf in it. My clothes are color coordinated and I bought matching hangers. (It helped that I have only one kiddo still living here!) But the papers and notebooks are still a colossal embarrassment of a heap. Every time I walk into the room, I see them. They beckon me while I sleep and assert themselves - hello! hello! see me! - each time I enter the room. Occasionally I spend a few minutes picking up one notebook, and then another. I read a line or two. I sneeze. I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue, and fear, and so I put it down and walk away. Perhaps one day I will deal with them. Perhaps I will not.
I lied, though. One journal has not made it to the heap. It was the journal I kept during 2021, when the facade I managed to hold onto during all of 2020 crumpled, quite spectacularly, in a blaze of tarred bits, burning embers, and ash. That year, at my therapist's insistence, I chose a steno-sized wire notebook for my mourning pages (that typo was not intentional but we'll let it sit!), so that the agreed-upon three pages could be more bearable. Its cover was a deep, blood red. When I finally filled its pages up, I tucked it into the top drawer in the small chest next to my side of the bed. The drawer also holds the four Lladro angels an aunt once gave me to celebrate the birth of each child: too kitschy to display; to precious to discard. it holds pen and pencils, bookmarks, love notes from my children's preschool years, some clumsily snipped school photos. I know what the journal says. It seems I remember every word. I know who the woman was who wrote those pages, and I am afraid of her. Or I am afraid for her. Sometimes the journal sings to me. Not only at night, when I am getting ready for bed, or in the morning, as I listen to the birds and watch the sky lighten behind my blinds. Sometimes it sings to me even when I am far from my bedroom. It sings while I am chopping onions in the kitchen or scooping poop from the yard. It sings to me when I go away. I feel its pull every time I step back into the house. My journal. My words. My life. 💚
lol - Amy - sorry ! not sure where this all came from! but it spilled out as soon as I started writing. I thought about deleting all of it - because, so random and weird - but then I figured, ah, f*&^ it!
I somehow think you do understand that moment of peering into the fridge and asking that question out loud.
I'm glad you didn't delete your comment, and I love the way this spiraled into something adjacent and very personal for you. I admire the culling and reclaiming you've done! I think maybe that's a bit of a different process in the case of death, but eventually, there will have to be a culling here. But the notebooks... yes..... I love the image of them piled on your family desk (and that the desk was relocated to your room -- such symbolism in that move for sure). It is an interesting problem those of us who write and journal at some point face, the history of words. I really understand the comfort of knowing that pile you have is there, even if you only look here and there at a line (or even never). Thank you for reading and commenting, Francesca.
I contributed a postcard to a local “artivist” project this week for women’s rights ❤️
That’s awesome, Kristen!
I am sorry this week sucked. I am always available if you ever need to vent out loud.
I have a file cabinet project to do too. I just haven't been able to get started. I got the coolest unicorn sticker from the library this week! And I checked out a copy of Queen of Snails.
I love the contour drawings, the remixes feel so pop art to me, the repetition of the drawing. It is so cool. I am finding myself wanting to snap pictures for you in the wild.
You can definitely snap pics in the wild - if you snap 3-5 in sequence, they are great fodder. I’m not in the line of people as much anymore. Last time I did this, I was “waiting” more than I do now. Sounds like a cool sticker - and let me know how Queen of Snails is. I had it out last year at one point and read part of it (not a comment on the book that I didn't finish). Thanks for commenting.
Like Laura, I'm delighted by the contour drawings and the repetition of color in the background patterns. Feels like it should become some kind of decal border to wrap around a room.
For a bit (and I'm still not sure-sure), I couldn't tell if the gate was real or metaphorical - but I've landed on it being both. As for the sucking at this (noted above the masked portrait), I suppose the answer is yes only if you have a standard of some sort by which to gauge "this." I'm not aware of one.
I'm sorry you cried, but I'm also glad you did. Feels like it might be important to let some stuff move.
This line strikes me as what we all do everyday: "This is simply a quest that quiets the fear that nothing really matters."
Hugs for being unable to outrun the hurt. Big hugs.
Thanks, Elizabeth. I appreciate the comments about the contours. I am enjoying them and somehow hope they bring a smile.
Hello Amy, I understand hard weeks. I think there’s a lot of us having hard weeks. We all have some of the same reasons and a lot of unique ones too. I want to know more about “unfriendable”. It’s an interesting term. I wonder if it means to you what it feels like it means to me.
Thanks, Deb. You are right that we all have reasons and weight we are sorting through and carrying. That word is a complicated one, I guess. I’m curious though that it jumped out. I hope things are well!
I’m sorry about the cruddy week. I, too, cried in the corner of an almost-empty parking lot on Tuesday. It was supposed to feel lighter after, but didn’t. I’ve carried a lot of weight … not just this week … and am opening a door I’ve long thought was closed for good. Not expecting rays of light to greet me but life is too short to keep wondering … pain is a kind of inheritance and I need for it to move through my body so it can pass.
Thanks, Mansi. It sounds like you are working through many things and dealing with a lot both past and present these days. I hope the door you are opening leads to good things.
I hope so, too, Amy. Sometimes life feels like a lot. Going back to taking it one day at a time since, really, that is all we have. Today.
🌈
Thank you for reading, Lea. I hope you are enjoying your 100 days still, too!
"“Are we sucking at this?” I asked this week, peering into the fridge.
(Deep down, I think the answer is yes.)"
Oh, yes! so much yes! Strangely, not exactly me this week, and when I say "strangely," I guess I mean "surprisingly," but I know the feeling so well!
I feel so much what you are saying about revisiting old documents. Since my husband moved out, over 5 years ago now, I've been slowly collecting all my old journals and papers from all the various nooks and crannies of my house. They now live, messily piled, on my father's old desk that I paid movers to move into my bedroom, a space I must not have wanted to fill up with these ghosts and memories while my husband and I shared the space. Or maybe it's more true to say that our bedroom didn't feel like a safe place for my words. Who knows. clearly I've hit a vein (thank you!) and there is more to be discovered there. At any rate, after he moved out, I decluttered the shit out of the house. Emptied closets and cleared all the under-bed storage and donated old suitcases and threw away a lifetime of Vick's VaporRub. Every cabinet and closet now has at least one empty shelf in it. My clothes are color coordinated and I bought matching hangers. (It helped that I have only one kiddo still living here!) But the papers and notebooks are still a colossal embarrassment of a heap. Every time I walk into the room, I see them. They beckon me while I sleep and assert themselves - hello! hello! see me! - each time I enter the room. Occasionally I spend a few minutes picking up one notebook, and then another. I read a line or two. I sneeze. I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue, and fear, and so I put it down and walk away. Perhaps one day I will deal with them. Perhaps I will not.
I lied, though. One journal has not made it to the heap. It was the journal I kept during 2021, when the facade I managed to hold onto during all of 2020 crumpled, quite spectacularly, in a blaze of tarred bits, burning embers, and ash. That year, at my therapist's insistence, I chose a steno-sized wire notebook for my mourning pages (that typo was not intentional but we'll let it sit!), so that the agreed-upon three pages could be more bearable. Its cover was a deep, blood red. When I finally filled its pages up, I tucked it into the top drawer in the small chest next to my side of the bed. The drawer also holds the four Lladro angels an aunt once gave me to celebrate the birth of each child: too kitschy to display; to precious to discard. it holds pen and pencils, bookmarks, love notes from my children's preschool years, some clumsily snipped school photos. I know what the journal says. It seems I remember every word. I know who the woman was who wrote those pages, and I am afraid of her. Or I am afraid for her. Sometimes the journal sings to me. Not only at night, when I am getting ready for bed, or in the morning, as I listen to the birds and watch the sky lighten behind my blinds. Sometimes it sings to me even when I am far from my bedroom. It sings while I am chopping onions in the kitchen or scooping poop from the yard. It sings to me when I go away. I feel its pull every time I step back into the house. My journal. My words. My life. 💚
lol - Amy - sorry ! not sure where this all came from! but it spilled out as soon as I started writing. I thought about deleting all of it - because, so random and weird - but then I figured, ah, f*&^ it!
I'm so glad you left it. Hugs!
I somehow think you do understand that moment of peering into the fridge and asking that question out loud.
I'm glad you didn't delete your comment, and I love the way this spiraled into something adjacent and very personal for you. I admire the culling and reclaiming you've done! I think maybe that's a bit of a different process in the case of death, but eventually, there will have to be a culling here. But the notebooks... yes..... I love the image of them piled on your family desk (and that the desk was relocated to your room -- such symbolism in that move for sure). It is an interesting problem those of us who write and journal at some point face, the history of words. I really understand the comfort of knowing that pile you have is there, even if you only look here and there at a line (or even never). Thank you for reading and commenting, Francesca.