That's what writing feels like to me these days, a hard slog, a chore, almost like punishment lines from some vindictive nun in my past. It makes me sad. I don't want to stop knitting but it seems that all my creativity is poured into that with none left for putting words on paper. I think about writing but when it comes right down to it and I'm sitting at my desk with hope making my fingers ache, all I get is static in my head and a desire to go manipulate the pointy sticks and string waiting for me in the living room. What is wrong with me that I can't manage to do both?
July 25 & 26--Adolphe Giraudon, View of the Central Dome and the Fountain Coutan, Universal Exhibition, Paris, 1889. The cool mist from the fountains was refreshing when you walked from the Central Dome. It was hot that summer, doubly hot in that abominable glass and iron dome of Giraudon's that they had built the Exhibition around. Rene didn't understand the hullabaloo about that dome. Any child could put together the simple shapes to make such a thing and only a child would forget about molded glass focusing the light streaming through it, making it burn the air like flames. Even on overcast days it was warmer in there, so Rene bet that everyone was relieved when the wind picked up to blow the spray from the row of fountains arrayed in a row outside on the grounds.
It's something anyway. Hope you've enjoyed your weekend.
--Barbara
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