After school I limped home, dragged myself up the front stairs, and collapsed in a pathetic heap at the art table. Need journal. Must cut things. Must glue things. Must slosh paint around. Must cut new birdy on new branchy to spray onto page. Must, must, must. Starting to feel better. There now. All better.
Neither page is complete. Will finish tonight after I have gotten my fill of staring into space. Teaching baby alligators to tell time is hard. Very hard. Harder, for instance, than making a new pair of party pants. More painful than a Brazilian wax.
Man your clocks! Fingers on the blue minute hand! Ready set GO!
Not the red hand, the BLUE hand.
The other one.
The long one.
Driving to work was peaceful. High pink clouds in the dark sky this morning.
Everything soft and out of focus.
The bridge has something different to offer every morning.
This last shot was taken walking out across the school yard to my classroom.
The question of the week comes from The Postman. Remember him? In the middle of composing his sentences for his story he stopped to ask a profound and beautiful question. (You may find it less so.)
“Miss Moss…I got to know. Do monkey’s cry?”
And while I’m on the subject of the profound and beautiful you may wish to visit this enchanting blog that my sister found. Bedlam Farm Journal makes me very very happy. All of the Border Collies remind me of the dearly departed Papa Moss who used to train herding dogs. He wouldn’t have a clue what a blog is, but I bet he’d like reading this one.
Elvis & I had a birthday a few days ago. I have now been alive 45 years on planet earth. It’s a good place to be, I think I’ll stick around awhile. I figured you’d want to see my party hat….or not.