Myself, swinging between the horror show of the less than supreme court trying to shove us all back to Mayberry and the vengeful glee of watching the Jan.6 hearings has me so outside of myself. As it should be. These matters concern all of us. Fuck anyone who would put their heads in the sand.
So, some large batches of self-care and a contracting of concerns for me.
Readying unfinished pieces for possible inclusion in a gallery show in August had me digging through the closet. Missing tools and materials were found. A degree of order was restored.
The River Basket purged of wishful thinking and stocked with real work.
I'll have to dig into the archives and figure that one out.
"Night Gardener" is so close to my heart that, if it's chosen, I am going to put a ridiculous price on it. It wants a sleeve and signature.
That kind of handwork is good for me.
And first thing this morning, a trip to day surgery for injections in my back that I hope will put me back upright and on two feet. Nightwalking would be so sweet.
Starting tomorrow, ferrying Charlie to day camp. A little time together that I've missed.
Valium is everything I remembered it to be and wrote for Anna in Prophets Tango.
A downy cradle. A softening of all sharp edges. A sweetener of anything delightful. Protection.
I also know it to be a deceiver.
My firstborn will be 42 tomorrow. It was 100 degrees daily when he finally arrived three weeks late. A Cancer rather than the Gemini I plotted. Ever and eternally the tenderhearted contrarian. I'm so grateful for his good humor, decency and artist's heart.
Thank you, Colin, for everything.