Bottles

Jason Hess made good on his promise this week. I am the proud owner of one of his lovely ceramic bottle sets.

A Nite to Remember

Last nite I was reminded again of the simple but tangible sense of well-being that comes from spending time with a couple good friends. Looking at life through hookah smoke makes everything a little better anyway, and when looking through hookah smoke at two of my favorite people and an open bottle of Dom Perignon, it's hard to find my situation lacking.

The summer is flying by. It's hard not to want to dig my heels in a little. I know change is important, and the path that leads me from here will be a good one. But it's difficult to stand in to the known looking at the unknown, and feel happy about saying good-bye to a wonderful life that's been six years in the making.

At least the loves that call me home are strong ones. I haven't gone on a good horseback ride in ages, and the desert landscape pulls me together in a way nowhere else does.

-------

It's been stormy here but the forests are still closed.

Yesterday I read The Life of Pi. Very much worth reading. Very much.

I feel like I should write in my new blog, but don't really find myself with much to say.

Starting Anew

So, here I am on my brand new blog. Now anyone can leave me comments, and we don't have to look at annoying ads all the time. =)

Ten Days in Santa Barbara

I just spent over a week on vacation from vacation. Such a rough life I lead. I am significantly more tan now. We took our road bikes and lots of books and hung out in a beautiful house on a hillside overlooking the ocean. Brian and I wandered through museums and bookstores. We ate sushi, and I did my best to start using possessives while referring to a certain baseball team. I also learned a lot about crossword puzzles.

Unlike the room I slept in for the last number of nights, I don't go to bed now with the sliding door open, feeling the breeze from the ocean stir across my skin. I'm once more a little too hot, listening to traffic and the people upstairs. But it's good to be home.

20 20

Today I set a personal record for longest time spent on a bike. Two and a half hours. I realize, in the realm of road biking, this is not a long time. However, we all have to start somewhere.

When I got home I passed out hard for a couple of hours (I did not sleep well last nite), and had some strange dreams about things that have been gone from my daily thought process for a long time. This caused me to continue thinking about things I haven't thought about for a long time when I woke, and all I can fairly say on the subject is the old adage, "Time heals what reason cannot," is definitely true. It's odd to be able to think these events over so objectively now... sort of like going back and reading a story I wrote a long, long time ago. I can remember what I was thinking at the time, and how it all made sense in my head. It's even slightly endearing (in a strange way) to remember the me who wrote it. But from my new standpoint, the entire thing is obviously juvenile and I'd certainly never give it to anyone else to read.

I have taken to drinking breakfast shakes before going to bed.

I Don't Like Ladders

I'm only glad Kathy had her epiphany about the stairwell before I fell to my death trying to get the reject lights to lock into the track. I really don't like ladders. Have I ever mentioned that? Yeah, I don't like them.

She did confess afterwards she would have felt responsible had anything gone wrong... ...

However, the collection show will be done and off our backs tomorrow, and it's another lovely, cool nite. On my way home today large drops of rain fell through the sunlight to land on my face. That was nice. There are plenty of things I love about Flagstaff.

I wake from a sleep of nightmares to find my room full of the smell of England. The rain will keep me from riding the horses this morning.

Yesterday, even a man who claims to be educated about art demonstrated that he did not understand what I meant when I called myself a printmaker. He brought me an old reproduction of a painting and wanted me to tell him it was hand-pulled - one of a kind. I find it hard to talk to these people, and feel oddly guilty when I have to say, "This is not a fine art print."

Then they say, "What's a fine art print."

Ha. Maybe someday I'll find an easy way to answer that question.

It's possible Old Main is haunted.

I have a greater capacity to get creeped out, downstairs in that building than anywhere else. Earlier today, I thought, "Great, Sunday, no one will be around. I can get a lot of work done." But then I found the back hallway unlocked when I arrived and remembered the homeless person I'd found between the stairwells the last time I was there late, and alone. Of course, the offices and entryways are usually open, but that hallway being unlocked means anyone could have gotten anywhere in the Art Museum (except 2D and 3D). Knowing that is probably what got me jumping at shadows.

Most of the time I spent locked in 2D, secure in the knowledge that the only key that can open that door was in there with me. But then I had to take the reframed canvases upstairs, and someone called the elevator between the moment I unloaded the first two and the last one. (Let me note again, this was 8:00 on a Sunday nite. No one should have been in that building). Someone called the elevator but it did not move again, and as soon as I called it back, the doors opened to reveal it was without passenger. I retrieved my last canvas and someone called it again. I stood and listened this time, but again, it did not go to another floor after the one it was called to. Then I had to call it back to lock it. Again, it was empty. After that, the elevator did not leave again. But I did. I hauled the last three canvases up the back stairs and took off.

The sunburn fades off my thighs while the sky bleeds red. I have poured a day into nothing and my reward is this sick feeling and strange images behind my eyes. I find myself irritable with people who are on the other end of a phone line. I want no more of it.

This morning I watched flecks of brown hair break into short pieces and fall through the sunlight while ladybug larvae crawled on my hands. This morning he kissed me twice and said good-bye. I now have one week during which my life will return to what it was before him - except, I suppose, I now possess the capacity to realize he's missing from my days.

I realize no one can go full speed ahead all the time, but I feel sick with the waste of this day. Tomorrow will be different.