Oh God
Horrible day after a nice early morning in Brooklyn with my sister. Black mood hit me like a ton of bricks and I dragged through the day as if slogging through waist high mud. This seems to be a short episode though as I am feeling better this evening. This could be menapause and hormones levels dropping; Friday at work I felt like my head was stuffed with straw and crawled through writing commentary that would have taken me no time two days before. Need to make an appt. with doctor. I am tired of being a crazy lady.
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Horrible day after a nice early morning in Brooklyn with my sister. Black mood hit me like a ton of bricks and I dragged through the day as if slogging through waist high mud. This seems to be a short episode though as I am feeling better this evening. This could be menapause and hormones levels dropping; Friday at work I felt like my head was stuffed with straw and crawled through writing commentary that would have taken me no time two days before. Need to make an appt. with doctor. I am tired of being a crazy lady.
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posted by MJ at 7:12 PM
9 Comments:
Do sweetheart! no need to feel low if it goes on and on and on. Listen to some Abba until you can get to the doc. it's a good stopgap measure. Dancing QUEEN!
hugs!
I completely agree about Abba! Dancing Queen is better than drugs. Hugs back!
Good lord, as I write this I am listening to Abba's Take a Chance on Me! A super cool radio station on ITunes!!! Must be an omen.
No poem today?
Blackberrying
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
Sylvia Plath
Abba is Always an omen. a good one. it's a G*d thing.
I used to go blackberrying as a little girl.
Thanks.
You're welcome anonymous. Who's your favorite poet?
Favourite poet? Hmmmmm. Finding myself partial to Rainer Maria Rilke these days.....
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