Tea & Troubles

I put on a pot of tea today, not doing well, weak as hell but can’t complain. Today’s brew is Tawantin Black Tea, which is not as purple as the Peruvian Spiced Berry in the photo’s cup. Yeah, snapped that photo weeks ago in kind of a show n’ tell after my cousin turned me on to Cleveland’s own Inca Tea.

I like the black. To be straight up and honest, I’m not that into tea so I’m still slowly tasting all the varieties that came in the Sample Box. So far, so good… most days, I opt for coffee. Sumatra is my favorite.

As for Troubles… I’ve had enough.

My little mask sewing obsession quieted itself. Suppose I should update Mice4Mars, sell off leftovers on eBay or something, but oh well. I just got tired of assholes claiming this virus would magically disappear on election day, mostly from idiots who now support a wannabe fascist dictator’s attempt to undermine our democratic process by overthrowing the results of an election. People are dying and they don’t care… it’s just a political ploy, a media hoax? Yeah, until you run out of fingers counting names familiar to your own self amongst the critically ill or worse. Bump the conspiracy bull.

I want to make paper.

I don’t have any proper screens for that, but I have two thin wooden picture frames, just cheap things sold as craft supplies to decorate yourself, and some scraps of window screen somewhere in this room. I don’t own a blender either, but I could maybe use one of those bullet smoothie things to make pulp, maybe the cup for chopping nuts. Those 4×6 picture frames would mold 3.75 x 5.75 inch paper, with rounded corners. Folded in half, hand stitched spine, would make nice little books. Or even as flat sheets, I could paint on them or something.

Echo in my head, in sister words: stop making small art.

Why? Is bigger better? Ironically, I’ve always been too big. Everyone always trying to cut me down to size. Too this, too that, too much. Bump that, too.

My cup is empty. Thanks for reading.



Laundro, 5x7

Laundro, 5×7

Laundry Day Drawing

Chopped drawing takes a spin,
A heavy hand with a dark line.
Who is afraid of color?
Push the mood to match the mind.

It is only paper,
Sweet blessed cotton,
So what if it comes out sad,
If artistic skills are rotten?

It is just paper,
Disposable, biodegradable rag,
Scratched in stubby pencil
By the hands of this old hag.


Screened Words

I wrote my way through a tangle of thoughts, both on real and virtual paper.  I wrote new blog posts, but clicked on the trash can symbol to delete my words while they were still in draft status here in my cell phone app.  I scribbled words on the back of junk mail envelopes, scrap paper, and index cards, pages torn out of journals and spiral notebooks.  I wrote until the words sighed in the wee hours of the night, and wrote until I ran out of ink and had to search the house down to find another pen.  Three pens hit the trash, exhausted and unable to write more.

Then I began to write again, sifting and sorting my thoughts out in poem form as if understanding will occur if it rhymes.

Have you ever snapped a photo through a window screen? 


Funny how eyes focus on the little song birds who love the sunflowers, while the cell phone camera is focused on the window screen.

That is how my thoughts were… I could see the understanding I needed obsured by a screen so I had to write my way through it. 

I found peace and clarity in writing the poem.  Although it is done, it needs to rest a bit before sharing as it has flaws… is “tornatic” a word?  I think not… and it has a couple mixed tenses that would make an English professor groan, but I might let it slide. 

Besides, it is an awfully long poem, perhaps too long to post on a blog, as typed up single spaced runs four pages long.  I printed it out on two sheets set for two columns and snail mailed it to a trusted friend and fellow blogger (although he hasn’t blogged lately due to a broken machine, his laptop crashed when it hit the floor) and then I found myself avoiding the main topic when he texted, able to discuss the flashback part of the poem, but not the current situation for which the flashback yielded the clarity.

I’m just not ready to share.  Does that make sense? 

Maybe I need to take it to poetry night at Meta, read it out loud first.

The thing is… writing is so vital to the process of recovery.  Writing is a means of gaining clarity and understanding when peace of mind is so desperately needed.  Keep writing.