Late Nite Insomnia

The end of week 3 and I can hardly keep up with projects and plans, unfinished conversations on canvas in muted tones of magenta and green, samples from my silk screen projects need to be redone, new screens to duct-tape,  connecting my thoughts with my images, my way of working, what I am reading, all the movies I watch - Pride and Prejudice twice in a row with only one Gin and Tonic, a neighbor in my west side space stops by for the second run, the music and lighting, the colours of the window sills fit my mood, the simplicity and complications of love made evident in the early morning mist.  My loom is warped up halfway with cotton thread, I haven't decided quite what it is that I am making, something between a tube for arm sleeves woven with wool so that when washed the wool will shrink and cause an interesting pucker.  There are pots of wool cooling in colours of grey turquoise, brown turqoise, black yellow, black green.  I'm thinking of culture crawl and felting wool into pictures, making cards, making scraves.  Selling my goods.  How fast can my little hands work, how sharp will my mind connect its ideas.  I lie awake at night thinking of home.  Wondering where that is, what it is I will do when I am finished.  I'm a terrible cook but I can put together an incredible salad, learn what a good bottle of wine is from my boss and her husband every Friday at 6pm cocktails, follow a recipe and bake a chocolate ganache cake. 

The rain came to Vancouver this week and I hardly noticed.  I still haven't done my laundry and I'm at day 55 living out of my summertime suitcase with a new pair of boots living on the westside with the likes of celebrity neighbors and beach side morning walks. 

Its no wonder I was born on December 4 with Wassily Kandisky.  He too also thought in colour, I consider this as I paint my humming lips red.  I'm working at my little store getting ready to skive the leather bags, finished up the accounting which is all coded by colour, and I've made calls to East side friends to come visit me at work for a pot of tea, a little chocolate for breakfast gives me energy so I delay my lunchtime salad with its seeds, quinoa, cheeses, avocadoes, greens, reds, browns, tones of the earth--reflections of the bridge I race across every morning, mountain peaks still green but receiving their covering of grey, the time when we lie inside ourselves, work from the core, think too hard about loneliness, hopefully not too much about death yet with the Bodyworld exhibit on my mind and the chemistry of my body demanding its food energy, I am in awe of how physical my being longs for luxury, decadence, alcohol, later mornings, trashy magazines, and any type of ease while my soul engages with the eternal, the heavenly, longs upward, begs me to drive faster, fly higher, race the guy in the BMW, turn up my music, open my sunroof and breath in the fleeting warm wind before it turns bitter and sharp.