works in progress, June 2021: in which I remember that I’m happiest telling stories for myself and building up layers- of words, of pictures, of useless cast offs that over time become useful compost.
as slow and small and careful as moss growing in cracks, I’ve been sloooowly waking back up to the Clandestine Submersible Corps.
Better (nearly a month) late then never, right?
To summarize: my brain = wants to do all the things, mistakenly believed it could do so through sheer force of will, children’s have confirmed my deepest fear, that I actually have no control over anything, that the universe is noise and chaos and there truly is no end to the laundry Charybdis.
Except, that’s also not true either (except for the thing about laundry- until we all adopt A’s “swimsuit every day” lifestyle, there will just always be a mountain of laundry)- the universe is noise, but it’s also music and joy. And I can’t control time or weather or biological imperatives, but I can control how I respond to them. So, I’m working on fitting my “doing” (art making, home tasking, deep thinking, reading, parenting for justice-ing,etc) into the cracks and margins. Moss is my new hero.
I was going somewhere else with this, but that seems like a good enough place to stop for now.