Mailings, GEMS TV, and Why Self Does Not Want to Leave the House Today

Today is April Fool’s Day, but self didn’t want to put that as the title for her post because dear blog readers might think this was a fake post, and self never does fake posts. What a waste of energy!

Today, self does not want to leave the house.

Does. Not. Want. To.

No. Ah-ah.

Even though, unlike yesterday, it is not raining.

Self has two stories all ready to mail out. Two, people! Then she had this wonderful intuitive vibe that struck right after she had sealed the envelopes: “These Read the rest of this entry »

Raining Again

The rain started up again, in fact just a few minutes ago. My swollen, sleep-deprived eyes can’t believe it. Just when I gathered myself together to do a Safeway run.

It looks cold out there, and naturally I left my car around the corner, not in the driveway where the wet brown leaves of the cherry tree stain the windshield, and I don’t have an umbrella: it’s in the car.

Late last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I started reading The New Painting: Impressionism 1874 – 1886. That’s the book I balance carefully on my lap (It is quite a hefty tome, dear blog readers) now, because I’ve decided to stay home after all — or, at least, to postpone my Safeway run for after it stops raining.

I wish I could be in that landscape in Auvers (painted by Paul Cézanne, about whom Emile Zola wrote: “Paul Cézanne, who has been struggling for a long time, unquestionably has the temperament of a great painter.”), or looking at chestnut trees at Osny (painted by Camille Pissarro), or in a meadow (painted by Monet).

I wish I could be at a ball at the Moulin de la Galette (painted by Renoir), or spending an evening with those women in a French café (painted by Degas), or looking at the bridge at Argenteuil (painted by Sisley).

How beautiful, I think, are these rivers, these rooftops, these women reading by a window, these gardens, these paths, these woods, these children, these summer days.

These terraces, these balconies, these markets, these mothers and daughters, this sunlight.

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