Chilly too. My fingertips are icy and I wonder where my wool mitts are. Hopefully in my backpack. I think it's a good thing I spent part of yesterday putting my summer clothes away and carrying up my winter clothes, warm socks, and longjohns. Ah, better. Typing that made me realize that not only my fingers were cold my whole me was cold, so now I'm wearing my Big Sky Brewing sweater and my wool fingerless mitts. You wouldn't think fingerless mitts would help to warm up your hands but they do. I hope some people are thinking about scuba diving today so I get a customer or two to break up the monotony.
October 21--Jan Theodore Toorop, The Desire and The Satisfaction. Pale blue eyes gaze mournfully over the waves, blue eyeshadow weighing down the lids. Cilla folds her hand together like limp gloves drained of the life spark of human being. The plea in those eyes drains me, makes me want to shout and wave my fists at her. "Stand up for yourself," I say, "be your own woman." But she just sags even further, her chin quivers and her shoulders slump. He is there beside her like a wraith, holding her in place with the force of his will. Even when he is physically elsewhere she is not strong enough to throw him off. I tug at her, entreat her to lift up her feet, move into a new place, but she sighs and shakes her head. She pulls her cool and flaccid fingers from my grasp and retreats back into her fog. My shoulders fall in defeat and I turn away.
Oh, I like this. The perfect thing for such a dreary day.
--Barbara
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