I am only half-here, arms straining with the wait for newness that is on it's way but not yet here, arriving, arriving. It is this aching wait that is worth it, once one is thrown into newness there is only the living to do, no straining no aching for a slick life to arrive. This summer was the strangest transit time; but I feel as if I have been in transit for the last year and a half, with the applications and then the knowledge of change that is imminent. I will be glad for this transit to be over.
B-pa died. I am trying to write about it because I do not know what else to do. Other minutes, I am working on various art things with a zeal that eluded me for many months. Perhaps it is desperation. But at least what felt like numbness for so many months is now shifting into feeling, feeling knifing into my eyes or dribbling down my neck, but feeling nonetheless: feeling that bubbles into words or images in my hands, that I can craft or let breathe or vomit out. It still comes as a shock sometimes, the deep way in which living is connected to making for me. It comes easy as air. I must write, I must draw, I must make, and in turn it saves me from the hardest days, from the long deserts and ravines of the restless mind. I am thankful.