PMS in the country.
Wednesday 7th of August 2019, finished the morning of the 8th.
The gift is to be able to say what was going on. I’m not saying I’m gifted. But I had to feel my words were sincere. Sincerity amongst other things is what I see as being lost.
People say that I’ve got high expectations. That they’re too high. I always feel like that line is a complete fucking cop out.
Here’s why - the expectee has clearly communicated they can perform and deliver at a high standard. The expectant has communicated super clearly having been burnt in the past by not communicating clearly and repeatedly enough.
Feeling disappointed quickly leading to feeling hurt, taken for a bit of a ride and lonely. Who is there to know what and when for you.
Enter the internet with its recommendations on what other 4 items you might like based on what you’ve been looking at. And not only that. There’s a reminder about the cut off point through which you can order more stuff to quench your emotional thirst for someone to feed you, someone to love you in just the right way that they will 99.99% fuck up. Data the bastard. I won’t tell if you read it ‘date’. Dates are important for data.
Compatibility. Maybe we’re just not compatible. He is not hearing me. I’m communicating but maybe not enough. Maybe enough is until I break every inch of romanticism in the book. Fuck that. I’d rather take my chances and feel the hot tears scroll down my face on a gale force wind walk through the downs as he follows me equally pissed off for having made sacrifices un-communicated leaving them to cause more wreckage in my head.
Nice work. And there now with a “wow is me” look on his face making dinner. You know the one. The one you both feel miserable at. Oh expectations. We’re all fucked basically. My fight will not bow out. It will stay in the ring until I’m understood. It’s not that I’m screaming UNDERSTAND ME. My heart is just a bit bleeding and my breath is just a bit suffocated cuz you know, why feel mild emotion?! Jesus I never use the word mild. What an awful word.
Moving on… so I’m at the table now brainstorming new recipes for TGLE 2019. I’m teaching how to make bread in a fire pit. (FIRE, not a mild word thank goodness!) Tasty bread like. Good for you. None of this tasteless shit but none of this white shit either. Bread to warm your heart and throat. I mean we all need that kinda bread in our lives no matter how hard or mildly (uck) we feel emotion!.
Escapism. I’m lucky. Well a bit unlucky really. I can’t escape myself as pleasurable as that would be from time to time for everyone! But I am lucky because I get to witness escapism of a kind with you guys when we learn and knead bread together.
Watching groups of strangers get to know one another around my table is quite frankly the most cherished aspect of my work. I LOVE it.
PMS eh. I hate people using it as the justification for me seeing and understanding things deeper. If anything, I think women are blessed to have hormones that allow us to look at and experience life on a different level for days at a time. But thus is the problem too. More and more degrees of separation don’t bind two souls together.
I look at my hands. I pay particular attention to the area around my left thumb. My left hand has always been the one to hold the mixing bowl as I stirred kilos upon kilos of teff with a range of other ingredients for the perfect poo. My hands remind me of my mother. We have the same skin texture, size hand and we both tan the same. I used stare at her hands on the steering wheel when she picked me up from school. I loved them. I always look at peoples hands. Their a feature I remember quite exactly in everyone. I do yearn for us all to use them more. Powerful little things they are.
And now this morning with a calmer mind. Yesterday’s strong winds have moved on and I’m hoping to get up The Downs for a walk with Biggie before more deliveries this afternoon.
It’s wonderful here in the country. But you need a strong heart and mind to go to its peeks by yourself. Strength of heart and mind needs a lot more focus from me. My sensitive soul in strife with its independence at the most precious of times.
Sitting under the willow tree this morning eating my sourdough with butter and jam, drinking my coffee, Biggie at my feet, my head not a jumble I felt at peace in my new home. My circumstance is that I don’t and have not had the emotional support I need and have needed for quite some time. A wrecking ball can always supersede my wanting mind.
But try we must and try I will, living for a future designed by all of me. My dreams, my now, burning in my heart and burning in my throat. Let the gale force winds come again but this time let my dreams use the power of the wind and not try fight against it.
Love, your baker, maker, maybe one day a candlestick maker.