The days fly by, stiff and unyielding: I try to set aside the dread that makes its own disasters. I reach for you, and hesitate.
When you sheet home a sail and it fills? That feeling? It has been missing from this last week. I can get no way on my life. It pitches and yaws and spins.
But the fear is all for other people: I have none for myself. I am indestructible, a deep-rooted blackberry in the alley of the world. Let them go ahead and try to pull me up! They'll only tear their hands.
I broke a plate the other day, one of our four remaining Churchill blue willows. Now we have three, and one of those is cracked and due to shatter. I imagine adamantine dishes, formed of blue clay and fired in the deep places of the world. I am tired of things that must be handled tenderly. I want just a few things that will not break.
Still, sleep-short and sore-eyed though I am, never have I felt more ferocious, certain, immortal. I weigh ten thousand pounds: I am made of metals heavier than you have ever imagined.
I am not the solution to anything. I am not the door into summer. I can't be transplanted or remade. This is all, only, and every.
So much love, dear. Today and every day.