The nastiness that has been incubating in my throat has moved into my chest and I feel like crappola. Crappola isn't a real thing, but that's how I feel. I'm not 100% crappola, though, I'm only, like 65% crappola. It's right at the edge of "Should I go to the gym?" I decided not to, mostly because of the nastiness in my chest. (If it had stayed in my throat, I'd be going to the gym.)
Dave and I had dinner last night with Lynn and Carol, a couple of artists from the studio where I used to and where Dave still works. Lynn is pretty amazing--well, they both are--but when I grow up, I wouldn't mind being Lynn. Lynn is the woman who traveled to Cuba last year to see a FOAF's santaria priestess ceremony, and she recently returned from several weeks in Mexico. Next, she's going to teach pottery for five weeks on a cruise ship that will take her from Ft. Lauderdale to Vancouver the longest way possible. Carol, too, at 77-years-old, is still strong. She's gone off doing shows of her work, but she still works and is now switching studios to be in a more dynamic place.
Potters are interesting to talk to because we're all, underneath, very blue collar artists. Pottery (unlike, say, painting) is intimately connected with function, no matter how artsy-fartsy it gets.
Mirrored
I have no life, but I do have a MacBook PhotoBooth that takes mirrored photos. See?
Total self-love kind of photo there, no?
And this is the left half of my face, mirrored. The weird lines on my neck are my glasses, which I removed to take this photo.
And I'm somewhat fascinated by the creation of the third eye.
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