early morning stream of consciousness
I'd have liked sleeping in this morning, but that seems impossible.
Very busy day ahead.
It's raining.
Also, it's kind of cold.
I want coffee. The real kind.
I can't have it.
It's been years and years since I hung a show. Maybe I forgot how.
Every weekday morning as I'm driving the youngest kid to school I pass a worker-man walking up the street carrying a lunchbox. Only the past few days, he's traded in the lunchbox for a one-liter jug of Mountain Dew. And I always think, Drinking your lunch, eh? It was funny the first time I thought it, and now I just want to think something else, or roll down the window and just say it so I can get it out of my head, let it into the wild to be free and unchained and not yanking at a bit somewhere in my surly little brain.
Mountain Dew is orange juice with caffeine. I used to live on Mountain Dew in my reporter days. I'd tell myself it was high-octane Vitamin C.
High octane is not what I need anyway. I manufacture that naturally. What I need is milk with tranquilizers in it, probably.
The husband and I went to the hardware store yesterday to pick up corner moulding for my frames. I haven't made a frame for a painting since I was a freshman in college and my painting professor taught me how. My painting professor who was later brutally murdered by the kid who cut his grass in the summers. So making the frame for the carousel painting took me back a ways indeed.
We got the lumber home and debated (after cutting it) how to treat it. Paint it or stain it? Unexpectedly I heard Mr. Brooks say in his gruff voice that always reminded me (a little bit) of Sean Connery with that same hoarseness around the edges: "You want titanium white with stains of yellow ochre."
Funny how a wave of sorrow like that can make the skin around your throat feel stretched and taut, as a trampoline will bear almost unendurable weight.
But then it gives, and springs back again, fully intact. Because if you couldn't be flexible, how could anyone go on?
The old man probably never knew how hard I was listening, or how long, after he stopped speaking, I gave up trying to hear.
It's silly to wonder what he'd think of this show, I know. What he'd say of all those bright colors in the paintings, or if he'd just say, "When I told you to only paint with colors you'd wear, I didn't mean colors you'd wear to the circus."
I'd have liked sleeping in this morning, but that seems impossible.
Very busy day ahead.
It's raining.
Also, it's kind of cold.
I want coffee. The real kind.
I can't have it.
It's been years and years since I hung a show. Maybe I forgot how.
Every weekday morning as I'm driving the youngest kid to school I pass a worker-man walking up the street carrying a lunchbox. Only the past few days, he's traded in the lunchbox for a one-liter jug of Mountain Dew. And I always think, Drinking your lunch, eh? It was funny the first time I thought it, and now I just want to think something else, or roll down the window and just say it so I can get it out of my head, let it into the wild to be free and unchained and not yanking at a bit somewhere in my surly little brain.
Mountain Dew is orange juice with caffeine. I used to live on Mountain Dew in my reporter days. I'd tell myself it was high-octane Vitamin C.
High octane is not what I need anyway. I manufacture that naturally. What I need is milk with tranquilizers in it, probably.
The husband and I went to the hardware store yesterday to pick up corner moulding for my frames. I haven't made a frame for a painting since I was a freshman in college and my painting professor taught me how. My painting professor who was later brutally murdered by the kid who cut his grass in the summers. So making the frame for the carousel painting took me back a ways indeed.
We got the lumber home and debated (after cutting it) how to treat it. Paint it or stain it? Unexpectedly I heard Mr. Brooks say in his gruff voice that always reminded me (a little bit) of Sean Connery with that same hoarseness around the edges: "You want titanium white with stains of yellow ochre."
Funny how a wave of sorrow like that can make the skin around your throat feel stretched and taut, as a trampoline will bear almost unendurable weight.
But then it gives, and springs back again, fully intact. Because if you couldn't be flexible, how could anyone go on?
The old man probably never knew how hard I was listening, or how long, after he stopped speaking, I gave up trying to hear.
It's silly to wonder what he'd think of this show, I know. What he'd say of all those bright colors in the paintings, or if he'd just say, "When I told you to only paint with colors you'd wear, I didn't mean colors you'd wear to the circus."
I'd have liked sleeping in this morning, but that seems impossible.
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