Sunday, July 21, 2024

Unready Fingers

A gift of God
May sear unready fingers.
—Earthseed: the Books of the Living 
Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler

I got thrown back off the TBI cliff again. Grief has won the day, and most of last night, and looks to be the prime contender for the foreseeable however long. I do not love this, and at the same time I do not trust myself to make big decisions right now. Grief makes a whole meal out of helplessness, and to dine at that table is to party with Despair, something I have no interest in. 

I miss Georgia. 
I miss talking with her, and I miss seeing her, and I miss reading with her nearby.

I can’t get the words on a Philosophy page to weave into concepts. They just sit there, being words, silently wondering if I’ve figured out how to pick the lock yet. I haven’t, of course. I can digest the news headlines after a few minutes of thinking about them, and then wish I hadn’t; it seems like a waste of effort.

I feel useless.
And so I make tea and walk the dog.
I chop up the cooled chicken and add avocado and red onion and tarragon, then take a nap because I’m too tired to eat, and I didn’t have any appetite really anyway.

The air is muggy with a not-yet storm and I wish it would either rain or move on.
Even the climate feels helpless.

Only baths and tea make sense.