Day One Hundred Seventy-Three


I woke up this morning feeling weak. I thought it was just a few days but I was told that it's at least a few weeks that I had been in a weird mood. I wanted to stay quiet and work alone. I went to the beach. I read. I made things in clay. I kept my journal in my notebook every morning. Somehow writing on paper with a pencil feels different from typing. 

My shoulder is still not perfect and sometimes my fingers feel numb in the morning. I seem to have a compression of nerve between my collar bone and my first rib from what I read. I came across an article that it is common to experience a psychological change in people with this condition. I have not decided that I'm one of them but having a possible reason to help explain the weird mood can be comforting.

So I started the morning feeling no strength in my core. But I saw photos my friend sent me from his show in my inbox and this lifted me up. I have to get up and get to work. This is not a joke.

A bit more than a week ago I saw a stack of large boxes ready to be picked up on the loading dock as I was leaving the building. From the size and the number of boxes with a red fragile label I assumed those were his work going out to his show. Then I felt depressed. There shouldn't be anything to be sad about. But somehow when works are complete and are going out I don't feel cheerful. They are gone and gone from the studio where all works were done. A release. But works are supposed to go out the door, to the world out there. I can't connect the thought but I'm thinking about the Little Prince's sheep in the box.

Day One Hundred Fifty-Six


I wrote the first draft statement on the time vessels. My argument does not come out well. I don't even want to argue about it, but I try to tell what I am thinking about and why I make them. I try to explain the ambiguous thing I am figuring out through making them. I don't like any of the words I write. I relate same things over and over. And it does not get to a point. 

There is a joy in working on things, trying to figure it out. But when I don't hear my own voice it becomes frustrating. What is the word, the thing I'm thinking? And then I say I wish I knew how to play an instrument. 

Day One Hundred Fifty-Two


I wake up when robins sing. Herbs look happy. I make myself tea and write at the kitchen counter. Four sqirrels are frantically running up and down the trees in the back yard as if running away from something. I bike my old English lady's bike to the pool. A bunch of guys hanging outside Anthony's panini place. I see my pool friends. I buy muesli ingredients from Whole Foods the way back home. Eat breakfast. Walk through the park to the studio. White globes of dandelions are replaced by white clover flowers. I work on ideas on a sketchbook for an hour and make a plan for the day. I work with clay. Friend comes in to fire his piece for his show. I work. I eat lunch, read, work, clean. I write and draw. Walk through the park back to home. Have martini. Wind feels nice. Have dinner. Go to friend's show. Stroll through the old neighborhood in a warm summer night to the apartment. It still smells a bit from the fish dish from the dinner party. Make tea. Read. Go to bed with an icepack on my shoulder. Everything is alright.