Once upon a time, Paulie Gonzalez rescued this critter in a raging snowstorm; today, Hobbes is King of the Couch at Mom's house.
One of life's great tiny pleasures is the aroma of infusing olive oil, in this case with annatto seeds.
Chicken soup, matzoh balls, baguette, fruit and vegetable juice: a lovely dinner on a cold, blustery night.
On Saturday afternoon, I was standing in the family store when a person sent me some very mixed messages. His or her face was completely concealed in what looked like a fuzzy scarf wrapped around some sort of frame, with fabric draped over his or her neck, shoulders and down to his or her hips, but open in the front. The tall person I could see was wearing a long, formless skirt and flat shoes in neutral brown, maroon and black colors. This outfit, in its shape, loosely resembled a chador, but those are always black or dark gray and designed to avoid attracting attention. This, however, was hot pink. I did not adjust for color when I cropped the picture. That’s really what I saw, but what was it?
Note to self: moisturize.
I’m at a crossroads as an artist, a curator, an athletic person and as a human being. As an artist and a writer, I have to start over. As a curator, I’m at the beginning of my work. As an athletic person, all paths forward lead into the woods. As a human being, I need a freaking clue, but may settle for a nap.
In December, I committed to writing the blog for another year, but putting up a new picture of Drusy twice a week accomplishes nothing, so I’m going to try writing at least a paragraph every day.
Before Darla left, we set up the beginning of the library of Dad’s photographs. I’ve avoided doing this work for a year, but a new digitizing service has sprung up close to home and costs and conditions are still up in the air. I’d like to finish this project within two years, if the local service is good; if not, the project will take five years at least. But, as everyone knows, if I don’t get started I’ll never finish at all.
It looked for a while as if hip replacement surgery would have to be sooner than later, but courts are clogged with class action lawsuits about hip replacement gear failures and I’m wary. Maybe this should sort itself out before I bionicize; in the meantime, yoga has become a bit difficult, but using the elliptical has become joyous. I mean, how could I not love warbling New Wave dance tunes while bouncing around in the attic? It’s a blast and may forestall surgery, but I don’t know what that means to me as an athletic person as I watch my friends and siblings train for triathlons.
I’m going to knit some stuff, do more for the food pantry, be less jerky, answer the phone occasionally and study Italian, while I write at least a little a lot more often, digitize some slides and warble Voices Carry from atop exercise equipment. These are small changes I’m likely to make and make stick. What are you going to do?
Poor Impulse Control 