I lived through my parents’ visit. My therapist said I should not try to think like someone I don’t want to be like.
Well, there goes that pastime.
I’m still working on collecting enough urine for my indigo vat. But I have many deep feelings about the idea of creating the thing that will dye the wool, like using my body as the medium for dye delivery.
There’s a kind of physicality that I find really satisfying.
I was looking for the source for my belief that sleeping under an indigo blanket grants you prophetic dreams, but the main source for that on the internet now is Tiny Cat Pants.
But when you get what’s involved with dying something indigo–at least traditionally–every step does feel like magic. You make this liquid that, as it ferments, is perfect for indigo dying. You spin the fiber you’re going to dye. You do the dyeing. Then you sleep under the blanket.
It feels like a circle, like you put out all this stuff that results in a blanket that, when you wear it, dumps stuff back into you.
Also, the occasions when I feel like this body is perfectly suited to do the things I want to do with it are very rare. I don’t need to improve anything or alter anything or suffer in any way.
It just does the thing I want it to do.
It’s weird. Nice, but weird.
That’s a lovely way to feel about one’s body.