sun + day

I woke early. I am not sure what woke me. I dragged myself out of bed & did some laundry. I put coffee on, washed some stray dishes (out from the night before) & opened the house up. iPhone weather said there was a 30% chance of rain by 9am. I hustled to get use of the sun to dry my clothes. 21kgs of clean clothes were hung up to dry before anyone else got up.

By (a rainless) 9am, I was exhausted. I fed Bowie & sent Paul back to bed (he has been cranky af these past days. It is a serious downer).

I sat in the morning sun, attempting to bronze my skin before the blistery winter begins. I knit up one of the pieces on my queue (during Easter I paired all of my stray yarn with a project) & sat with Isobel as she gossiped. My coffee had begun to separate from the oat milk (tastes the same but looks gross in a glass mug) & my water was warm as a bath, so I retreated.

Then, I went to visit my dead.

I tended the plot & sat. I whispered a conversation (half out loud, half thought in my head) of frustration laced with the smallest dust of hopefulness.

Fuck, I miss him. I know it is known that I do but really, I miss his face. I do not dwell on it. Not anymore… it seems pointless to spend my life longing for the dead. I have eternity to be dead – this is my time to live.

It is hard to make the good things last.


twirly rainbowy bits

I have recently started spinning my own yarn. I bought a spindle more than five years ago – I never picked it up until now. Every winter I would say, “I will learn to spin while it is cold & blowy outside”.

I picked it up when it was sunny & warm instead.

What was up is now down and bok bok. I have no idea what I am doing. I do what feels good, yeah? And good might be against my previous set of rules. I am perfectly okay with that. With this. The newest software for this model is being updated, I am just awaiting the restart.



It is not a big secret – I am not terribly happy with the way I look. If it, not my weight that bothers me, it is the colour of my eyes or the lines that are crinkling beneath them. I hate smiling. It makes me look demented.

It is so cool to be self-loathing.

I really need to give myself a break.

This body has made life. It is strong and grants me gratuitous amounts of pleasure. It may be soft but it wears the scars of my life like a rag doll that has been stitched together many times (from being loved too roughly).

I do not need or want your approval. I am learning, on my own, that I am good enough.