I love mine too. Now Don and I can each be on at the same time. So much easier to write in my room rather than in the living room. I don't have an iPod, not sure what they're all about, plus I'm not crazy about having something piped into my head all the time.
If you've got something you'd like us to do, that'd be fine. I've always got the bananagrams or we could just talk writing too. We'll play it by ear. That okay?
You have captured exactly that go away/come back feeling when someone you love dies. You hate all the hubbub and people but miss them when they're gone. Outstanding.
I've been lazy about writing and so was a day behind again. How is that happening? Anyway, I was actually busy at work today so couldn't catch up. But instead of filling my head with mindless television dreck, I sat down and wrote. *pat, pat* Good girl.
March 17--Sir William Orpen, Sunlight. The only good thing about Bridget's tiny apartment was the window. It faced southeast so even in the darkest depth of winter she had light. Her studio was a walled-off part of an older, bigger apartment in a Victorian house made into flats in the 1920s and then subdivided even more in the 1950s when no one had a dime after the war. Bridget still didn't have any money to spare but she did her best to liven up her cramped place. She bought a painting of a garden at a flea market for its bright colors and gilded frame and she found one long gold drapery panel with a silk cord tie to hang next to her window. She upholstered her bed frame in old floral curtains she got in a junk shop in the neighborhood. None of it was much on its own but together it was cheerful and made her feel as if she finally had a real home.
March 18--August Macke, The Lute Player. Daniel followed the music. Every morning as he shaved in the tiny bathroom of his hotel he heard it. He was curious about it. He knew it wasn't a radio because it was just one instrument, one pair of hands. Yesterday and the day before, by the time he had finished dressing and had eaten breakfast in the cramped dining room of the Atlantic Hotel and got outside, the music had ended. He had walked around the neighborhood but never saw the music maker or the instrument. He had gotten up early today and skipped the paltry cornflakes and instant coffee to head out and find the source of the music. He stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel listening for the direction to turn. Left and then left again took him into a sunny square with a small cafe, and there she was. Sitting at a table with her hair covered by a veil, a young woman with intense black eyes and rosy cheeks played the lute. Not taking his eyes off her, Daniel fumbled into a chair and ordered coffee. He was willing to sit and listen as long as she would play. He smiled at her; she smiled back. It was a start.
I'm wishing I were on a trip. Both of these take place in London--in my imagination anyway. Hmm, where's my passport?
--Barbara
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