days 38-42

Thoughts in lieu of blog-style prose:

I'm dreaming big dreams again, perhaps too fragile to share.

Work is the same: slowly-moving projects, the ever-opening of boxes, and a coordinated dance of polite hellos. I sit in a line of traffic (candy bowl, shortcut) so my desk sees a lot of lunch breaks, bathrooms, raised voices, mail runs, suits and flower prints.

Barry emailed this morning that Amelia had her baby last night. I was also up at 4am, unaware, and typing in a powerpoint. I had a sudden push to do my schoolwork while their (yet unnamed) boy was born.

On the train home I finished re-reading Garage Band. I read it a couple years ago and loved the understated feel of it: blurry watercolors and sketchy lines. I still recommend it. 

On a whim I bought it a few months ago with Sam Shepard's Motel Chronicles. Both lovely. Garage Band ends, "and about how things come to an end and begin again." Sam Shepard wrote (about his father, 8/29/80 Santa Rosa, Ca.), "It seemed odd to me how a man who loved the sky so much could also love the land." I am romanced by cadences as easily as he (my gone-away artist-in-residence) is swayed by pictures. In that way, we're both visceral.

One more artist-on-the-brain: Tada Chimako (1930-2003) who wrote:

the hot water

in the abandoned kettle

slowly cools

still carrying the resentment

of cooler water

(from A Spray of Water: Tanka [the hot water in])

and

"So affable are our smiles that they are always mistaken for the real thing"

(from From a Woman of a Distant Land)