The Bees in Sicily

Ended up tromping yesterday.

Dunno what I was trying to prove or disprove.

It was an incredibly gorgeous day. That was part of it.

The other part of it is that I can never figure out what’s really going on inside myself: I have excellent intuition when it comes to sussing out other people’s motivations and/or emotions, but I’m a stealth missile when it comes to my own.

I’m told this is fairly common among the offspring of people with borderline personality disorder: You become hypervigilant in terms of other people and the potential danger they represent, but you camouflage yourself so you don’t become a target.

Am I really sick?

Or just incorrigibly lazy?

I honestly don’t know.



Anyway, the tromp was gorgeous, but I didn’t really have the stamina for it. I made it the full five miles, but I had to take rests.

I did see this person. Who made me laugh:



But the world really seems so sucky these days.

Not on a personal level, I must hasten to add. No, I continue to live a charmed life—though it’s clear that major changes are coming down the pike and that I need to start planning for them.

For right now, though, my little life is pretty much a gift.

But all around me, I see people in deep irremediable pain. Or I read about people in deep irremediable pain. Like I read a story this morning about an Italian beekeeper whose hives were all destroyed by the Sicilian wildfires.

And I couldn’t stop crying for half an hour.

Like that’s really gonna help solve anything.