Fruits of My Labor(Two of them)

If you plan on making a doll, think twice.  Here is the result of many full days of work....mistakes, poor workmanship, redoing, aggravation, questionable results.  The feet are my crowning achievement, but they are not enough to call this project a total success.  The sandals, which I crocheted in about ten minutes, are the most interesting and "cute" thing about it.  This is not to say that I am through with doll-making.  I am not satisfied with what I have accomplished and can not stop until the quality of my work is at least satisfactory.  I've learned a lot, and I hope to improve considerably with my second, and hopefully last, attempt.

My house was inspected today by the Section 8 police and passed muster for the fourth time.  I will continue to have a roof over my head for another year.  Of course this will not hold if Phil's lawsuit against me is successful and I loose my income.  My disbelief that this is happening has turned to indifference....a function of self-preservation.  Since I lost me beloved Lytton, all of my emotional output focuses on his absence.  Everything else pales by comparison.  I spend days at a time obsessed by thoughts of him and the consequences of his death.  Death itself looms large in my mind.  I've decided that the middle of life is the best, when there is a certain consistency.  The troubles of the past, of arranging what will be your life, are over.  The future stretches before you, endlessly.  There is still room to change, make plans for the future.  Dreams might come true.  Then slowly possibilities slip away, all that seemed permanent disappears.  People  who have been alive forever, and presumably would be there forever, begin to vanish.  Options narrow......no time left for a new career, a trip to Europe, another baby, a new puppy.  Every action must be measured against a short, indefinite future.  There is a finality about most things.  Every experience might be the last.

My father always said that no one ever knows when life will come to an end.  Being old is no different from youth in that respect.  Well, perhaps so.  But young people have reason to be optimistic about their own longevity.  They can pretty much ignore the fact that their lives will end.  Not so as one ages.  I must admit that I am more fascinated than chagrined at the changes in my appearance.  My wrinkles and moles and an visible blood vessels intrigue me.  Nevertheless, they are changes that are pretty much irreversible.  A diet or a new hairdo won't change me much.  There is comfort in that.  There is comfort in knowing that others' expectations are minimal.  Inadequacy in both physical and mental tasks is expected.  Freedom.