I am trying, I really am, to leave behind or at least set down for a bit the baggage of the present woes to concentrate the stress and high emotion into something good, a story not of but from myself.
But it is cold in here, my little shop that absorbs the rain and damp to permeate the air and skin to leave me in a tightly wadded ball atop a stool where keyboard lies. Across the room is where I should be, layering the story of an image, a print of someplace colorful and warm. But it does not exude nor share its comfort so I ignore it. One good thing yesterday: Reframing an old Grant Wood piece, "Woman with Plant", I shoe polish the frame, take off the old matting, and find that the print is a special edition with Grant Wood’s signed approval. My client will be happily surprised and that is something I look forward to revealing.
But I am cold. A fuse blew from the heater just to warm my feet–I stubbornly hold off on firing up the propane heater with the cost of fuel. The path to take: computer shutoff or the heater? I am cold, but writing.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
The icicles fall from outstretched fingers. Oh wait, Domino’s Pizza at the door.