Saint Patrick's Day

Click to enlarge. Definitely worth it.

What is my hair doing?

It's really cold, but I have been walking to work everyday!

New art wall, happy cat

First day of school

I know, more cat pictures. Sad, really

California lemons

Mountains

Missing Indiana but mostly cats

Colden state

Weather is very odd. In fact, it seems to be going crazy. Raining ice in Indiana after days of unseasonably warm weather. California gets two straight days of rain. And my mom convinced me to go to the mountains with her, where my step father and I spent three hours shoveling three feet of snow out of the driveway, and five feet if ice from snow mobiles. The work of it made me warm, despite the dropping temperatures (24 last we knew), so we pushed on in thin sweatshirts and gloves.

By the end, my clothes were wet to the skin. My skin itself was red like a sunburn and icy to the touch. I still can't warm those areas up.

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Women at the new airport are fashion forward

White noise

It falls like gravel, like rain. It falls like pancake batter into the pan (the non-stick kind). It stabs; it clumps; it coats. It is powder, mist, ranch dressing. It is repulsive-- I want to hide from it, burn it, sweep it away. But I also want to touch it, lick it, roll around in it.

For today, I will fly in it.

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Bloggering

I used to write my thoughts in sketchbooks. Not everyday, but often. I liked using sketchbooks because if I suddenly found my thoughts could best be expressed in a picture, the media was already in my hands. Not so when the sketching goes online. True, my phone puts the writing and posting of photos in my constantly twitching fingers, but suddenly my little sketches have fallen by the wayside. I wonder if I have forgotten how to draw completely. Even my words have lost their spontaneity as I struggle to type out letters and compose for a possibly instant audience. (I know this sounded better when I was brushing my teeth.) There is also the oppressive need (when typing) to both spell correctly and to finish sentences.
I bring this up as I pack a lifetime of sketchbooks to move into yet another home. I delight to look through them. The drawings, doodles, pasted in extras enchant me still. I am not 30 when I read them over. I can't even look at them as a teacher ("how do these pictures function? What kind of composition is this?") but in the head of the woman I was then.
I was always buying new books too-- whether I forgot to bring one when needed or I found a beautiful new one. Hence, they are not in chronological order, and I shudder to think what a mess I will leave when I am gone.
This has a point. It did when I was brushing my teeth. I miss writing, brainstorming images. But it feels so childish now. (Do I have to let that go too?)

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Chicago with the guys

Everything changes that quick

Bound to happen sooner or later

Fall weekend