I have a cold and am exhausted. Still unpacking from the move. My studio remains a work in progress. Too many unopened boxes. Need a new (gargantuan) bookcase. Art is wrapped in Kraft paper.
My feet are cold (literally).
Tea helps.
Tea always helps.
(Does it for you?)
Decided to suck it up and add to today’s NaNoWriMo word count anyway.
108 good little soldiers.
Better than nothing, right?
Until tomorrow, I have the laziest of intentions:
Sweet Repose by Victor Gilbert (circa 1880).
Happy dreams!
Illustration from “Radiation and Decoration,” a catalogue from the American Radiator Company (1905).
Yesterday’s Google Doodle was in honor of Sylvia Plath’s 87th birthday. The gorgeous art is by Sophie Diao.
Sylvia Plath Google Doodle. Art by Sophie Diao.
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
Haven’t stepped foot outside since the last sunset. Don’t plan on breaking this chain. Not today. Today my will is adamantine. Hard as a scimitar. Laziness, my chosen luxury.
Furthermore…
Someone else brought a package in, retrieved the mail. All junk, anyway. Glad I didn’t waste those fifteen seconds. Time spent under a new duvet is precious, irretrievable. Pushing it off is forsaking a cloud in favor of the gutter.
Furthermore…
Tea doesn’t steep through telekinesis. Mugs aren’t self-sugaring. Spoons do not come with ‘automatic stirring’ buttons.
Furthermore…
Books exist to be read. Aged pages feel good when rubbed between fingers, the scent produced intoxicating.
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
***
Rain on the River by George Bellows (1908). Collection: Rhode Island School of Design Museum. Public Domain.
Silent Spring by Rachel Carson
Tea (not shown): English Rose
The cover of Eliza by Barry Pain, 1904:
Eliza by Barry Pain , 1904. Illustration by Wallace Goldsmith.
Let Fury Have the Hour
Tea (not shown): English Rose
My book consumption slowed to a trickle in the weeks surrounding our move. Too much to do, too little sleep, no time to think or, after a certain point, properly process words. It was that draining. No joke.
Now that most of the volumes are back on their shelves, my reading is nearly back to its normal, healthy pace. Yay!
Here’s what I’m actively digging at the moment:
Portrait of Henry James by John Singer Sargent (1894)
What are you reading this week? Please share in the comments!
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 