New Year’s Day/Jan 2: A groggy start to the new year thanks to a sleep-inducing antihistamine and staying up to watch the fireworks.
Unfortunately, the dermatitis returned, which I am now reasonably sure is down to eating cheese and dairy products (again).
I had every intention of glooping up and staying in… but, instead, went to wish Ma. Today (2nd), I very definitely am staying in, makeup free and filled with antihistamine as the reaction is a little more severe. Horrible itchy eyes. Definitely an under the blanket kind of day so I am forcing myself to remain in my jimjams and dressing gown to prompt me to relax fully. Says she while collating cuttings in prep to add images, and doing a list of 100 things to do to promote my art. And finishing the recession tips. More of which later.
One of the NandDs was concerned because Ma had fallen and banged her head and sounded discouraged. It is probably landmark dates that make her restless, although that is what she said of me, as I checked the cupboards for her missing undergarments.
She seemed fine enough apart from banging on about going home for the baby. And telling me my (hair) layers made me look ‘witchy’. The day before that she had told me I was getting darker. (Actually the melasma is slowly improving.)
Yesterday, when she said she would be dead by the time she got back home, I said at least as a ghost she could stay at BC as long as she liked. That made her laugh. Yet, despite these earthier moments, I sometimes feel that dementia is settling in. Certainly there are signs of a different kind of mental confusion.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world continues to make personal harmony impossible. Well not if you care enough, that is.
PS Had a late lunch and watched part of The Nutcracker (1993) … and a glorious ballet dancer called Wendy Whelan as Coffee. What a mesmerising dancer!
PPS Exhaustion is setting in. Off for some shuteye.
PPPS: Spiritual exploration is a must, and I admire anyone who makes the time for the quest. However, that rather fake, to me, Anglican priest, Peter Owen Jones, seems, to me, to serve no-one well; neither his God, his congregation, nor those whose faiths he picks at in the name of TV celebdom. Why precisely is an Anglican vicar teaching viewers about other faiths? Is his own not good enough?
Spiritual communion has just become another kind of telly entertainment, which is rather sad. Even Songs of Praise is like reality TV. Have we so little time for God?
Euphrosene Labon Mind Body Spirit Artist Author Writer
