Under a Waxing Crescent

Crickets.

It’s what you might have heard from me if you check this blog regularly. I have been so tired and fraught with matters that have left my inspiration to cook zippered shut in a bag shoved in the corner of my room. Proverbially speaking of course.

See, my dad died a little over two months ago.

And with that came eating, not eating. Crying, not crying. All spanning moments tracing into hours that have now brought me into month two. So perhaps this might explain the absence. I have been funneling any sort of energetic spurt to write into composing threnodies or letters. And then finding myself sleeping, sleep-walking, trying to eke out the semblance of what I remember myself to be like before the sky was rent in two. I can be pretty good at pretending (even fooling myself) into being what I need to be in the moment. I have put myself (mostly) in the hands of other people to make me food, to try and nourish my belly, while I hunger and thirst for the solid ground to anchor me. Some nights involve chocolate and others swimming. It’s amazing how grief has its own appetite and it’s the one I feed out of priority.

For a week, I just wanted to lie still. For a month, I did not want to leave my house. But the living go on living.

So the focus these days is simple survival. Move, don’t move. Cry, don’t cry. And the flurry of discordant emotions will continue playing roulette. Photos and recipes to come later as they are wont to do.

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