I’ve read this today: Art is the only way to run away without leaving home (Twyla Tharp).  I’ve painted and missed a meeting and been living here in my house all evening, from the sun going down to the moon coming up.  I dream all day every day of what it would be like to be making art again, to be living at home in beautiful dresses again and saying what I think out loud.  As soon as things let up a little, I’m going to get my little factory together and become an artist.  As soon as I can run away a little in my soul, I’m going to, and maybe other people will be inspired to run away, too, looking at what I make.  I’m thinking of things like photographs with too much light, or too little, with lots of velvety shadows or pale, husk-dry reflections. (Yes I’ve been looking around on Tumblr again … and they’re all 18 year-old girls, the ones with these photoblogs of the mysteries of life.  Strange.)

I’m thinking about quilts, small ones, ones made of the dear pants I’ve just had to retire and all the outlines in my head of boats, birds, wheels, branches, all things passe and lovely because they still mean things to me, things I will write about while I’m sewing and think and think about even after.  I’m thinking about oil pastels, all the color laid on so thick, and how a rich red one would look on the walls of the Blue Garrett.  I’m so lonely today, not sad, just so alone and I’m used to it … I just forgot I was, for a while.  I feel like I’m walking around so lightly in this dress that I’ve worn for two weeks, like it was made for me, and all the things that were so overwhelming this morning are gone for now because … what can one do, really, to avert disaster at 11:02 at night?  And what can one do to avert disaster, anyway?

It’s a strange mix, today, of being aware and being unaware of God.  I think it’s been a failure, overall, because I’ve worried so much, and worried some more.  I can never tell where a healthy honesty of emotion runs over into an unhealthy disbelief or wallowing.  Well, actually, I can.  Just not today.  But it must mean something that tonight is so still and peaceful, at least it’s still, and I’m not crying anymore.  Oh, I have to go for my first six-month check-up at Dr. McDonald’s in two weeks (got the appointment reminder in the mail today), and that’s one reason I was worrying.  I opened it and started to cry, because, I don’t know?  What if they ask me something about my job (and I get kicked out of the program), or the appointment is expensive, or I have another cyst?  Nothing can be averted at 11:09 at night, though, and nothing can be averted.  God is holding this in his hand I must believe.

Where is my Mark Jarman book, To the Green Man?  “Bidden or unbidden, God is present.”  Everyone in the world is flying to Wales for the Green Man Festival and I am at home worrying and pale.  But it does feel pretty good to write everything down.  Some color is coming back.  I know I need God more than I need anything, and that he is here.

One more thing is that I miss Marshall, who is still hiking the A.T. with his brother.  I thought he was coming back today, and at noon or something he sent a text that said (wait, I will find it, I must find it, you will love it): “Im hikin w Taylor n Virginia on the A.T.  We just had lunch at 5,000 ft.  Lunch today was peperjack cheese, summer sausage, whiskey, and a camel lite for desert” (sic).  At the time I thought that sounded delish, except for the camel lite, but now I realize my brain was adding some kind of bread or crackers in there … you see there is none.  Maybe the whiskey stood in well enough for the carbs.  So, he’s having fun.  Glad for that, for all that fun, for the fun that is happening out there, somewhere, “n Virginia.”  I seem to be very happy about that, that fun.  I appear, even now, to be smiling, oh whatever it’s a grimace damn why do people get to have fun WITHOUT MEEEEE, why.  I hope they sprain their ankles, all four.  I hope everyone will be miserable until I start having fun.

I guess I need to stop blogging and go to bed.