I am very reluctant to do this now – seems almost impossible to funnel all the ideas and proto-thoughts into coherent sentences. I doubt my ability to make sense. I can blithely churn out morning pages but with the idea that somebody might read this a a malevolent genie of self consciousness is censoring every thought.
I am reading a novel about a woman who abandons her family and home for a life of solitude and self sufficiency in the country.
Abra lives in a home without clocks or mirrors which she decorates in a happily bodged way and gradually moves into an instinctual life, in tune with the seasons and without words. She cultivates enough land to feed herself but doesn’t strive for mastery above and beyond survival.
Joan Barfoot, (1978) Gaining Ground