Songs that call forth ancestral rage: Labour by Paris Paloma.
It's magick at its deepest and most primal. Even women with supportive partners feel the pull from the lyrics, calling forth the rage out of deep within our souls. The fury of women from time immemorial.
If you -- a man -- hear a woman listening to this song, humming along, singing along: be wary. If you hear their voices together chanting the words, under the moon: run.
I am working on some Lego flowers. I was a bit concerned, because I am very much not a visual person, that I would have difficulty with the instructions -- but they turned out just fine. Nice.
thank you, Lego, for these charming sets.
I went to an event at a local park this evening, as an effort to get myself out of the house and do something For Fun. (I am struggling to do Recreational Things, but am trying.) It was cold, and windy. But the air was crisp, and there was a campfire somewhere, and the scent on the breeze reminded me of camping with my favorite people. For just a moment, I was freed from all my burdens. Lovely.
I wish I could be as relaxed as the kitties. Instead, I am a ball of disgruntlement and fatigue, like an overtired elderly chihuahua trying valiantly to guard the house but in reality needing desperately for someone to put me into a soft round bed in the upstairs back bedroom so I can get a little bit of decent rest for a change.
This is so pure: If you love her, by Forest Blakk.
She always has troubleLovely.
I hope you enjoy.
As I tackle, day by day, the small pieces of Daddy's paperwork, the estate minutiae, the incremental transfer of responsibility to the next generation, I find myself wondering:
Did Daddy ever feel overwhelmed by the responsibility?
Or did Daddy find comfort in assuring himself that all was attended to?
Or, perhaps, both?
I hope that Daddy did not feel as though we took him for granted.
He took care of everything so quietly, so smoothly, that it was easy to overlook all that he did for us. And I know that I try so hard to take care of everything so quietly, so smoothly, that sometimes I do feel as though the things I do may are overlooked.
I'm a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps, though, it is because I am trying to attend to all of the paperwork, while standing on the edge of the Daddy-shaped hole in the world. It is dark here, and windy, and I feel very much alone.
Grieving is a funny thing. It's been seven weeks now - not even two full months - and the rest of the world has gone back to its regularly scheduled programming. No one asks how we're doing any more; it's assumed we're just moving forward. Which we are, I suppose.
I don't know what to do with the sadness that wells up, nor with the urge to sit and dissociate because I cannot bear to actively acknowledge my own thoughts. Driving is tricky, not because driving is difficult or distracting, but solely because the car seems like the only safe place to cry but I don't want to arrive at any destination a waterlogged fright. Only let a couple of tears out. Save the rest. What is the point of crying? There is no one there for solace. And yet, I do not really want someone there, because I need a moment when I can pay full attention to my own feelings without feeling obligated to tend to someone else's.
Just me and my feelings. We are an awkward couple right now, an arranged marriage. We need to learn to tolerate one another's company better.
It will get easier eventually. I hope. Right now, though, things are hard, and I am sad.
Bright, beautiful Offspring the Second has turned twenty-eight. He is independent, on his way, a fully fledged human being. We are so very proud of him.
I miss being in the presence of his wit, his dry sense of humor, his tenderness with the pets. He is such a good egg.
Fly, Offspring the Second, Fly. I hope all your dreams come true.
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