Concerns and Appetites

My day began at 5, but there is little of interest happening ... except that I am concerned because the Alcoholic Poet has not posted since the 27th (Tuesday morning just after midnight) and she is usually very regular with her nightly posts. Her last poem ended with these lines:

The window yawns. Heavy with lives we'll never live.
The scab returns to where it has never been.
Patterns on the flesh say otherwise.
While blood quietly solves the algebra.
No remainders. This is not division.
Just when. As stubborn as ever.

I hope she is all right and that my prickly sensitivities are not warranted.

A friend many years ago ... my best friend in fact ... committed suicide in his mid twenties. He had been talking about it ... living his life punctuated by desperate moments ... for a very long time before he did it. Back then (in the sixties) the word was that suicidal people don't talk about it; they do it. Today we know otherwise.

On a very different note, I have been lusting after my wool. It draws every sense to it. It smells wonderful. Its colours blend and marry within the skeins. The darker one particularly intrigues me and I am anxious to see how it will knit up. I feel almost a hunger for this wool ... a gluttonous desire to dive in and make it part of me. In my experience, that is something that happens more often with art than wool.

I feel the same sensations when I read poetry and other literature, when I am in the presence of sculpture or pottery that makes me want to touch and fondle it, and when I look at paintings, photographs, and skies that draw me right into them. I will post a photo of it, but you won't understand if you haven't touched and smelled it, I am afraid.