Summer’s End Scrapes Me Up

This is an old journal I upcycled that I now use for story writing ideas when I'm on the go or if I have an idea I need to research or pursue further. I used the covers from the original journal, some exercise books, some scrap materials, and a ton of glue. And I mean a ton - I'm sure if it ever got to 35 degrees here then all the glue would melt and the journal would fall apart. Oh, and the buttons are purely decorational and serve no purpose other than I used material with buttonholes in it for the spine. It would just look weird if there were buttonholes but no buttons, I guess.

I was diagnosed with dyspraxia. A lot of people know it as the “clumsy disorder” but it’s a lot more and I think it has a lot to do with my speech.

It’s more then just the “clumsy disorder”. I’m more then clumsy. I have weak core muscles, I’m weak, I’m uncoordinated, I’m constantly running into things, I can’t grip a fork right, I spill food and get it all over myself

Yes, I’m clumsy, I drop things, spill things, etc. But it’s more then that. It affects me greatly and I think when people mark it just as “being clumsy” they are undermining a disorder that affects people greatly.

With my speech, I talk in a monotone, which is easier for me. I talk in simplified language and don’t use big words. I slur and stutter my words aswell,

I just realized this when I was talking about dyspraxia and I thought it’d be important to discuss.

August Blooms Like a Bruise on My Forearm, Dante Émile

“The moon is honey on the mouths of madmen”

— Guillaume Apollinaire, from Claire de Lune; Alcools: Poems (tr. by Donald Revell), 1913

“The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour.”

— Sara Teasdale, from Stresa; Rivers to the Sea: Poems, 1915

It was true love felt, never true love given

You walk with stars on your feet

trailing glory in your waking path

rosy fingers grazing smokey clouds to meet

the dawning skies above

Waking up to a thousand songs

each hour, they chime and sing,

I knew they would never sing again 

if there was no new day to bring

.

They mark the time with beak and wing

its slow passing now my desire;

forever bound to their floating song, 

forever bound to their charming fire

Rain falls on the many and sunshine only a few. In moments of joy, rain sure does feel like sunshine.