Eaton Hamilton

Has anyone considered the astonishing idea of blaming the abuse on the abuser?

Tag: crisis

I’ve Been Off…

Geez, sometimes life is just too hard. I’ve been away from social media for the most part dealing with a couple of personal crises, and while I might be here bodily again, my brain is still offline, unable to fully function. I can’t do anything with it that needs the slightest bit of concentration. Well, no, that’s not true. I can drive or cook, and I can watch TV, but anything that contains a true challenge–working–is out of the question. While I’m waiting for the brain’s capacities to come back online, I’m trying to dab my brush at some small paintings.

What do you do when you’re in this state?

Total eclipse of the garden

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The sound of the cat jumping off the bed.  The smell of lemon-oil soap.  The heart with its bleats and whinnies.  The sound of the rain.  The traffic moving through the alley–Smart Cars, bicycles, delivery trucks.  At 3, children’s shouts.  The white garage across the ally.  The Spanish tile roof.  The turquoise biffy for the workers at the laneway house that’s going up.  The smell of cedar.  The pressure-treated kick-plates.  The man in the blue fleece carrying lumber, his white cap, his dangling keys.  I live below grade and now, with my fence gone, my windows are peepholes.

Yesterday, I wrote the crisis in my novel The Lost Boy.  I had no clue the book was going where it went, exploding where it exploded, but when it blew up, I thought, Of course, of course, nothing else was possible.  Now I will wrap up the denouement, then I have to go back to feed in sub-plots and image motifs.

People push grocery carts past my windows and the fencer says I need to dig up more clematis for a reinforcing pole to go in.  The condo board says no vines can be grown on the new fence.

I was surprised to discover bulbs coming up now, those crazy things, in December before winter has even started–hyacinths whose tender heads have been summarily stomped.

 

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