I got my reading done young.
a mind filled with the corpses of books
I read as a child.
Edward Abbey, who am I now?
Robert Pirsig speeds away, Cosette’s hair streaming behind the bike.
Ayn Rand buildings shimmer in the distance
and I learn of lust and idealism
among mingled dreams of cave bears and architects.
I don’t remember Raskolnikov,
but I still drink lapsang souchong tea
echoes of the summer I read Michener because I’d never seen a book
about a place I’d been before.
All these old ghosts rattle their chains at me tonight.
Who am I now, Edward Abbey?
One of the most debilitating aspects of depression is the way that it steals hope. The tides of darkness sweep in and out of my mind and heart, leaving a flotsam of despairing memory, so all consuming that nothing else can be felt.
I cannot begin to describe how hard it is to escape from this rip tide. Once I was at the oceanside, and got swept off my feet by a strong wave, and for a brief time lost any sense of up or down or direction. All was spinning stinging lightness. This is like that.
Right now I am holding on to one thought, hoping that it is buoyant enough to serve me as a lifesaver in this thrashing sea. It is not too late. Not too late for anything – for learning and living and loving and reading and writing and breathing. That there is still time coming towards me, that this is not the end of all things.
It’s not too late.
is it my mind or
is the poison in my mouth
spring tea sullies fall
Light skims the surface
beneath which the goldfish swim
shimmer. August heat.
Following a link on my friend Teabird’s blog, I have just learned about the Poetry Project. I love the alliterative mundanity of the post title this lets me use.
– by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, –
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.
The coal does not burn
The empty kettle is silent
The spring tea is over.
As I talked in about in an earlier post, I have this large longwool fleece that I am slowly processing and spinning. It’s not a great fleece, but I’m fond of it because it was my first fleece purchase. It’s a fine exercise in patience and thoroughness in process techniques. I’ve started working on it every day. I comb enough to make six bird’s nests of combed top, and stick the combing waste in a sack to card later.
The combed top I am spinning on Sakura, a 0.8 oz Spinsanity that I got a few years ago. I spin in the morning and afternoon, using up the birds nests I combed yesterday, and then in the evening I comb more. When not being spun, the fiber and spindle hang out together in a nice bin I have.
Every few days, I sit and pick over then card the bag of waste from combing, and spin the rolags fresh off the cards. It’s good practice for the woolen draw, which I am working on learning to do well. I can really tell the difference between the rolags where I’ve been nitpickety about the fiber the ones I haven’t. I”m learning to be more selective about the fiber I choose to process, and what is just not worth the trouble. It’s a fun project.