In Artists, Circus, Current reading, Food, Revision, The Crab Walker on June 5, 2014 at 7:15 am

You have to start somewhere. Crazy, wonderful, crowded dream. My friend who does sculptures out of metal was wielding the oddest hammer ever devised, shaped like the lower part of a high-heeled shoe with a Cuban heel. I had to make my way through a crush of people, pull my gear together (where are my socks?) so as to leave with the rest of the traveling show, or film crew, or whatever. A group, at any rate, involved in a collective something out on the road.

The old bookshelf, now a varnished vermilion, glistened in the rising sun this morning. Discrete, it is not. If I find the money or a source for good paint at cheap prices, the powder pink walls will turn a bright shade of yellow. Living alone has its advantages. Anyone who faults you on your bad taste or less-than-subtle choices is free to do so. My basic palette hasn’t evolved much since those far-away times when I peered at bright cut glass buttons and imagined they were rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Read a few pages of Willa Cather’s My Antonia last night. The glistening red of the wild grasses, as far as the eye could see, moving in the wind. The queer little bugs the boy discovers for the first time, with their backs of “polished vermilion” – is that what made the marvel of the sun on the bookshelf even better, this morning?

Writing. You have to start somewhere. And then? Whereto? I don’t know. Colors, for sure. Saturated ones. Not in the mood for restrained pastels. Good taste, bad. Gaudy, restrained. Crimson, saffron, cobalt blue.

Two pizza shops now, down on the main square. The newer one does a thriving business. The ads are better than the product. The older one does no advertising to speak of. The owner makes his own dough. Confided his secret ingredient to me yesterday: olive oil from his family’s trees in Morocco. Untreated, unfiltered, nothing but pure olive juice.


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