I feel all virtuous today. I got up (almost) when my alarm rang and I did 14 minutes of Wii Yoga. Then I showered, read the paper, filled the birdfeeders, ate breakfast, and dressed. Now I'm here having written my art prompt for today, ready to post it before going off to work. (Don't be too impressed. This sort of behavior usually doesn't last with me.) It's dreary again, too. What an odd summer we're having.
July 1--Leonid Osipovic Pasternak, To the Relatives. What a picture in contrasts! The widow and the wet nurse, bright and dark, introspective and anticipating. Their bodies tell the story. The wet nurse is in her best red dress, with all her necklaces and her headdress. She sits up tall, leaning toward the window, toward her future as the life's milk of the tiny bundle in her arms. The widow is just the opposite, leaning back in her black widow's weeks, her face and arms slack with grief and despair. What will become of her and her babe? Why did he leave her so soon? She will be an object of pity for a while, but then they will be a burden. It is too much for such fragile shoulders to bear.
Pretty interesting, I think.
--Barbara
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