Last night I basted the letters onto Owen's quilt because stitching them with the machine was just too arduous. The old Singer doesn't adjust well to different thicknesses and I am working with fabrics not found in nature, thus the machine was not designed for them, not really.
I was surprised at how quickly the basting went. And now all that's to be done is the embroidery part and I am looking forward to that. I doubt Owen will care much at all about his blanket but it is important to my grandmother heart that I make it for him.
I hurt a lot today. A lot. I don't want to talk about that. I don't want to talk about anxiety either except to say that the other day I got an image of it as a prison, a body-sized prison that holds me within an iron grasp and prevents my escape into life and pleasure. I heard John Goodman, briefly, on the radio the other day and he was saying that it is becoming harder and harder for him to go out into the world and that he's going to have to deal with that sooner or later and that he never went into acting thinking that he would receive the sort of "notoriety"he has. That he only wanted to make a living. I could hear in his voice things I feel, although of course I do not have to deal with the world wanting my presence in it the way he does because of his work, that livelihood of his. I think I could feel the iron prison he lives within, almost hear the iron-echo of his words as he spoke from it. I know I am not alone.
Well, it's not really so bad today. Okay, some of it is, but it's not the worst, by any means. I am going to go take a walk, pain be damned. The odd thing is, it doesn't hurt while I'm walking. It is the afterwards part. The rest-of-the-day-and-night part.
It is so warm today and the stench of death is not as horrible as it could be. My floors are mostly clean although no one would even notice the difference. I walk and there is no difference. I make a quilt no one really cares about. I clean floors no one notices.
This seems sometimes to be my life. Staying busy with that which makes no mark on the world at all, changes nothing, produces nothing of value, simply invisibly marks the days of one woman's very small life.
Well. We all have days like that. I will put on my shoes. I will go walk through the woods and ponder that place which may or may not be some sort of Indian mound. Another mystery which I myself will never solve.