Feb 17, 2007 19:34
I am a world of sore muscles, sweat-caked eyelids and black and blue shins. Flu ravaged and half-baked, dizzy from exertion and lusting for a big bowl of chicken noodle soup.
And I am content.
Everything is moving along well, but my education is becoming more of a circus act to watch from the outer circles; I am involved at times, but for the most part, I am a jester in the corner, chiming in when the time seems right. Ericka Booker and I sit and sigh and laugh and chill; we are amused by the lily-white sincerity and genuine, childish passion of those who direct us in the most trite, cliched of exercises and hastily-xeroxed platitudes.
I nibble at Othello, I wear work boots for an excursion on the ice of Big Bay and forget that sun melts surface ice even when the air drifts below freezing; I dream of a new tattoo and sip black tea. I could use a beer.
Mostly though, I'd like to go to a gallery. To experience something I'm unfamiliar with. To try to figure out what any of them are attempting to do. That world where subtlety is the byword, and everybody but I knows the secret language they're employing.