(no subject)
tuesday is my saturday--at least through the month. october begins tuesday through saturday at the museum. the dreaded and loved museum. it is a bright sunny morning, though morning has long since passed (2 pm), and the sky is a deeper shade of blue now. mornings are crisp, evenings are cool, and i saw the first crimson edged leaves last week. it has been nearly a month, i think, since i've had a quiet morning at home alone. i think of writing in here, and it seems like a chore, a game of catch-up. how can i convey any richness in the listmaking?--the postcard home: here's what i've seen, what i've done... yesterday at the park, i sat with a man whom i have yet to write about (but will have to soon. my feelings are a whirling turmoil of complex) talking about listmaking. i tell him i don't keep lists of things i think, things i should do, but rather lists of lovely things, autobiographical lists of lovely things i see. he questions, and i point up to the sunburst dispersing cloud straight overhead.