poor bunny

birthday collage for the good doctor?

__ yes __ no

also, stm: degree of difficulty comparable to that of applesauce. ish

morning

too tired to sleep

art school, 1979. worked at a convenience store, broke down paper towel boxes to use for painting surfaces; also gesso and pencil, oil sticks, paint.

in my own bed for the first time in days and days and nights.
himself’s son, asleep in his room. upstairs six’s mom abundantly generous, helpful; a drive to the not nearby airport and a stop for a meal he likes, a chicken wrap from a falafel place, to take away. he is tired. I am, too.
the caregiver with my mother. an hour and some late in arriving and living what appears to be a complicated life. I imagine safety because I have to do. tomorrow I’ll go back to mom’s for the night; Wednesday we fly south.
just now
I can’t sleep.

morning

all the colors. layered. joy somewhere. love to all you nerds.

hemi,
this has angels. so does your advent calendar.

it’s almost your birthday.

sending big love.

xo

raiselm: happy birthday eve.

this says pencil, pencil is an ancient precursor to (of?) the sharpie. and i know you feel ways about sharpies.

and look at us now.

hope it’s a fabulous day.

xo

and this

happy birthday, Derek. your picnic awaits. hope it’s been a great day, dentist not withstanding

truth: thank you, Rachel.  I was thinking about it, and about my own craziness in that regard.

I think I made this painting when I was in art school and working in the convenience store.  I took home the big cardboard boxes, broken down, flattened.  I liked the texture of the corrugated board and the big fat oil sticks and the littler oil pastels.

if my brain was housepaint I’d be peeled and shredded.  I cry at nothing and at everything.  the phone rang a while ago here (at work) and for a second, a sub nano particle dust mote of time, I thought of himself even as I knew it wasn’t himself calling.  very few people regularly phone me ever.  so the phone has the power to bitch slap me. hard.

thinking about a time when I was trying to get my friend Paul Geremia to think about going fishing with himself, just because himself liked people and they both liked fishing.  Paul went kind of snarky (not intentionally, I don’t think) and said something about fishing not being a team sport.

I wrote that to someone today; someone kindly offering help and support.  the realization I had that grieving as well is not a team sport. 

kitchen, yesterday afternoon light