I took this photo a few days ago for absolutely no reason other than I like stumbling upon random art (even if it is ever-so-slightly disturbing). One of the things that I love about living in a city is that there is plenty of it--art, that is. The interesting thing being that, the more I look, the more there is.
Yesterday I dropped V. off at work and then had to drive across town in rush hour traffic to get to my painting job. It was cold out, but the sun felt extra shiny and warm as it bounced off a sea of salt stained freeway and glinted off the bloom of skyscrapers that I have come to call home.
When did it start feeling like home?
I sang along to the music as I drove while drinking coffee and eating a banana. It was still early and I had the whole day in front of me. I felt, well...good. Really good. And I realized the extent of my city-ease (it was such a finely orchestrated overlapping of newness and normalcy). The feeling reminded me of picking that first dandelion of the year and looking into its petals until finally being overcome by the notion of "oh wow! look, how y e l l o w it is!"
The last time I experienced that sort of perfect yellow light, it was early morning in a small town and I had just stepped out of the grocery story.
Sometimes I can't help but be amazed by the number of facets one life can hold.
As I drove home from work today I looked up into the sky and followed the flight of a hawk across the lake and then an intersection.
I often forget that I live in the middle of a city.
Lately I find myself looking forward to spring. Take note. That is the first time I've ever heard myself say (write) that out loud. Usually spring comes too quickly and too soon. After a winter full of darkness and quiet contemplation, the excitement of spring always catches me off guard--too noisy, too outgoing, too much everything. But not this year.
This spring I am looking forward to easier movement. Much of my winter movements have been spent walking in the woods, but now I find myself wishing for long bike rides and strange adventures. I want to wander this city and photograph its grunge. I want to watch the sun set and to capture the urban lines that interrupt its color--a bridge, a railroad track, a lamp post, a building, the glint of glass. I want to wander and watch and absorb. And then I want to paint.
I still haven't gotten used to living here and maybe I never will.
I love the fact that, even after 6 months of this place, there is still so much newness. I don't know why, but lately it causes my world to glimmer with strange varietied potential.
And, for unknown reasons, in the light of February, everything and anything seems possible.