. Two days post-workout means it’s physically hard to lift my body out of bed. The hamstrings protest. The back protests. Oy!
. The sky is clear and the edges of the crescent moon are sharp. I look for constellations while riding my bike. So much has changed in a month.
. Cucumber snow. Cucumber snow? This is what she brings for her share to last night’s class. Along with individual cups of crab and octopus nestled into a bed of the creamiest hummus. A bottle of flavored oil gets passed around, because apparently this woman knows no limits. She uses the term sous-vide and I, for a second, feel like a Jeffrey Steingarten on Iron Chef. My miniature piece of octopus resembles an anatomic heart, pulmonary vein on one side, vena cava on the other. The chew is tough. But that cucumber snow!
. Water-colored sunrise + coffee.
. The hero’s journey.
. We follow Meatyard around the museum. I’m fascinated and she’s appalled. I love this about art. There is no right or wrong, just emotion. I land in front of Guy Mendes, looking at the things he looks at.
. This day, no, this week, beats me up.
. I swallow an entire glass of wine before I get around to peeling the squash. The shallots burn my eyes. More wine.
. It looks like rain but I head to the park anyway. The one on the edge of town that I tell no one about. I have it to myself. The entomology is abundant: monarchs, caterpillars, giant spiders. The wildness is always unexpected.
. “But you fell the wrong way, yeah you broke your leg, and now the animals are turning their heads.”