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1.21

Dreams. . Fought my way to wakening this morning. Trapped in my old studio. Bunch of others were working there. No place to set up. Kept misplacing my paints. Having fits. Now with coffee in quiet kitchen. This is better.





1.20




Continuing memories of down under





1.20

Illustrated torso in progress





12.26

Upended by grief.

Need magic to heal broken hearts.





12.14

What don’t I know about you?

Meanwhile, this









11.28




More ready
Some nice watercolors
And mixed media

All from the heart





11.28

Getting ready All my journals laid bare Pretty much





11.7




One changes

It's true that most of my work
couched in the primitive and myth
is no more
than illustration
of the thankless task
of being me.





10.26

I’m stripping my life ,
down to bare bones,
darning holes in socks.
It’s a poor metaphor
but
I just don’t know
what I need/want to wear anymore.





10.17

Just another morning.

She makes flower arrangements
in small bottles and vases;
one particularly precious-
a pink geranium
couched in green sprigs,
bound to win a ribbon
or certainly coos.

Percolating coffee
burps and hisses
while the hair
on my bare, crossed legs
object to the chilly kitchen
and huddle plaintively.







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