So much better to find this young girl's portrait this morning. I don't know her, haven't seen her before, so I can let my imagination run wild, I'm not bound by preconceived ideas.
Picked the last 5 blueberries this morning. They're still plentiful in the grocery so my Cheerios will have their company for a good long time.
I'm restless today. I want to go someplace, not work, someplace interesting, someplace different, but I don't know where. I mentioned it to Durwood and he started talking about frequent flier miles and mileage partners. I'd love that in the winter but I think I'd like to go someplace for a weekend, someplace easy to get to. I'll probably settle for waiting to go to The Clearing in a month for a writing retreat and let it go at that since we need a new roof and should spend our money on that.
August 13--Domenico Ghirlandaio, Portrait of a Girl. If she kept her face still no one would see her thoughts. Lucia felt stuffed into her red dress and tethered by her hairstyle. Clava, her maid, had used a new iron to crimp the sides of her hair and had touched her temple by accident. The sizzle it made was shocking and the smell combined with the smell of burning hair was nearly enough to send her to the slop bucket. The pins that Clava used to hold her heavy hair in place poked her scalp, made her want to dig all ten fingers into it and scratch until her hair was hanging free down her back. Whatever her portrait looked like, it would never show the real Lucia. It would just be Mama's fantasy Lucia, the girl Mama loved more than her true daughter.
Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
--Barbara
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