I left a book group I’d been on for years. They rarely talked about books these days, it was more about television, music or trips. I mentioned a new book I had put on hold at the library and another member said she had read it and it was good. I decided to be bold and ask her why she’d never mentioned it or spoken about the book in the group. She said she was very busy, and used Facebook or Goodreads for book talk.
I find it increasingly tiresome when people state they are “too busy” to do something. Admittedly I am not busy and spend much of my time alone, so I try to understand those with busier lives, but in the end I know that if they can yak on Facebook they aren’t all that busy, just choosing to spend their time at other places.
Communication seemed pointless, so I let that particular group window for communication go finally. Tiresome, wearying, pointless, futile, the endlessly busy world of people rushes by, leaving nothing but a rush of air.
Tapestry woven rug/hanging
This postcard reflects that futile movement for me: hither-thither, up and down in the air currents, but no one is touching. They look like they have points, nosing through space, but in the end it is a disconnected pattern of rapid movement. No one listens, they rush and blow by to go elsewhere.
In the quietude I can make things with my hands, and use colour. No one rushes by and shouts “I’m too busy to bother!”