It makes the truth even more incomprehensible
The BYM was away last week, so smelly projects were on my list, such as slapping a second coat of "Broke Turquorise" to my studio room. The paint was left over from an exhibition at the museum where I work, and fits with my plan to cover the unattractively beige walls in shades of blue, with rubber fish (originally used for gyotaku, and likewise inherited from a colleague clearing out storage) suspended here and there.
Un-carefully painting while sipping sparkling wine and listening to Milk Street would have been my idea of an excellent Friday night even before sheltering in place. It's a sign of how fried I was, though, that I got paint on the tofu I prepped afterward, and just didn't care.
Anyway: tofu curried. Bouquets and other gifts delivered. (Some of the zinnia stalks are now as tall as I am. Best crop ever.) Lots of oldies blared, including various takes on "Lay All Your Love on Me" (which the subject line is from, and which I was obsessed with for a good long while after hearing Information Society's version in a Haifa sushi bar).
This morning's mysteries include where I stashed my waterproof watch. I advise betting on some shoe or tote I will check two months from now, since that's how my in-house Bermuda absent-mindedness rolls. It's okay, I retort to my ghosts. Been frying arkloads of fish. You had your priorities, and I have mine.
Recent reading has included My Papi Has a Motorcycle, by Isabel Quintero and Zeke Peña, whose graphic-novelesque biography of Graciela Iturbide is on my shelves:
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