All the altars are half dismantled and I am breaking down with them. Rendering myself.
Stirring a soup of stuff. Baggage. A chaos of ephemera and heirlooms.
I am panicked. The sand runs out faster faster faster.
The landlord in his wisdom sprays my garden with Roundup. That was bad. Then I come home to find he has had his hired help mow my food patch to the ground. Gone! all my kale, spinach, garlic, chives, rhubarb, calendula, yarrow, bergamot, gooseberry, dandelions. Then I find the ferns and tulips and that lovely wild purple flower have also been sprayed.
Could that not have waited another week or two, until after I had left? Environmental illiterates like these people make me want to join those outlaw organizations and commit acts of brave stupidity to make statements
I stave off complete breakdown by rediscovering mermaids. Late on Sunday night four mermaid cloths are born in the kitchen. Yes I am going to start the week with dark rings under my eyes and the haggard look of one with unhealthy habits but....my garden, my food and I are poisoned by this place. We are so close to not surviving.
Unravelling and unlisted.