9/30/06 I mentally paused at each corner on my way to Downer Hardware yesterday, trying to bike down streets where I wouldn't run into anyone I know. I didn't have time to chat, and I didn't dare. I have two performances, Linneman's on Monday, Alverno (for freshman classes) on Thursday, and my throat's sore. Thanks to allergies and reflux, I have to ration talk before I perform, can't spend voice rehearsing, one carefully-timed run-through a few days beforehand, and that's it. I took voice lessons for awhile; otherwise I probably would have had to stop performing altogether.
Our kids decided to celebrate
Artasia's move to its new location at 181 N Broadway and the incipient Rosenblatt Gallery right above it. The grand opening is November 11, but at the last minute they invited a few friends for tonight and wanted us to do the same. So good luck to my voice.
Adolph has spent the week moving his work and setting up sculptures in our new space, including the
Oriental Pharmacy Lunch Counter, but it's still chaotic. I'm supposed to have my work there, and haven't had time even to think about it. Maybe I can put up the lithos I did of dancers in 1974! Look at that, all those years of art and writing, and where am I? More or less where I want to be, actually, but that's a whole other subject, under the heading of priorities and values. What's the subject for today? It's this: I write a blog every single day, a long one, but it's only in my head. I never have time to write it down. So last night I put my pad and pen in full view next to my side of the bed. In reality the pad and pen are always there, but under unread novels, acrostic books, and writing friends have given me to read. The difference this time was that I promised myself to use them, that I wouldn't get out of bed until I wrote down whatever was on my mind.
What interests me when I write? Basically everything. Maybe that's the problem. I want big pictures and tiny quirks, thoughts or actions that we might not think twice about. Yesterday I noticed a man down on hands and knees, head thrust into the underbrush atop Atwater Bluff. What could he possibly be doing? As I floated past on my bike, he placed his camera before his face to take a picture, of what I'll never know. If I were in talk mode, I would have asked him.
Those little quirks. Like last night: I glanced in the mirror and couldn't stand the unruly ends of my hair. And it was too long. All the salons in Shorewood flitted though my mind, places I've never been, tanning salons, spas, hair salons, snip, snip, $35 plus tip. My daughter-in-law Pauline does a good job, but she wasn't here, so I grabbed a nearby scissors, snip, snip, right side too long, whoops, left too long now, then right, some long strands, not in the danger zone yet, even if someone else has to finish it off. Finally I adjusted it to my satisfaction, 5 or 10 minutes, no charge.
Some blogs I wrote in my head on Thursday might or might not be coming up eventually. The quirks: My 3-mile ride with groceries so heavy my bike basket kept collapsing. The big picture: Our book club discussion, after reading Tortilla Curtain, about what kind of person we discover we are when it comes time to act.
