Starving

For those of you who actually visit this mundane blog, I apologize for my absence of late. I just cannot get myself to write. The words are collecting in my fingertips but my fingers will not hammer them out. There is a disconnect somewhere. And so it is with my whole life. A mysterious disconnect.

One morning your predictable conscious self surprises you. The alarm rings. She shuts it off and rolls over. Doesn't get out of bed. Shows no intention of getting dressed. She's on strike. Grievances have been ignored for years, maybe a lifetime. Working conditions are intolerable.

Annie Dillard tells us what happens next: '[Y]our worker - your one and only, your prized, coddled, and driven worker - is not going out on that job. Will not budge, not even for you, boss. Has been at it long enough to know when the air smells wrong; can sense a tremor through boot soles. Nonsense, you say; it is perfectly safe. But the worker will not go. Will not even look at the site. Just developed heart trouble. Would rather starve.'
Sarah Ban Breathnach, A Daybook of Comfort and Joy, "October 5"

I'm not one for starving myself. I'll be back soon.