I’ve been embracing life in the Real World lately. Sometimes I go days without turning on my laptop. Until a minute ago, I hadn’t checked my e-mail since last Tuesday.
Jobs are good, clients are good, Sydney was good, New York is good, Washington, D.C. where I thanksgave was good; life is so unrelievingly, generically good I’m afraid I have lost a bit of the blogging muse. I expect it will return.
I did a job with a photographer who shot film — actual, grained, celluloid film from little canisters — recently. I went on a casting and met a czarming Czech who walked around the New Museum with me on a rainy afternoon. We joined a participatory exhibit and sewed a white linen quilt with a motif of randy rabbits opposite two artists and an unemployed woman. I went to the National Gallery and saw a roomful of Toulouse Lautrec and two roomsful of Rembrandt. Bought some space ice cream. Haven’t tried it yet. Every time I catch up with someone I haven’t seen in months, I’m reminded of five other friends I still haven’t rung. The real world, it turns out, is pretty nice.
(See? This is the banality of observation my brains have been chucking up lately. When I have something to say, I’ll get back in the game.)
