I am driving home from Seattle, fully aware that after a few days of truffle gnocchi, sautéed wild mushrooms, hot beignets, coconut-curry chocolate chunks, BBQ pork, 3-cheese baguette, Indian dosa, baklava and more ... it is time to slow down and lose a few pounds.
I can do it.
I am determined.
Salads. Green smoothies. No sugar. A daily hike.
I can do it. Starting ... right now.
A little while later, I pick up my kids so that we may head home for an afternoon of Mother's Day sweetness.
Marco gets in the back of the car, carrying a huge chocolate cake he just made. For me.
He is beaming.
And so, without waiting to get home, I turn around and run my finger along the edge of his beautiful creation and get myself a mouthful of chocolatey gooey Mother's Day.
At SAM yesterday after a surprise lunch at the Georgian, I am walking around when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, it catches me.
A painting by Mark Rothko.
I gasp and feel myself pulled towards the tall canvas.
I am fully aware of the cliché and yet, really, truly, I hear nothing around me for a while.
Just the painting. Just the colors.
I walk to it and then I sit and then I move in the colors.
The transparency, the vibrations, the buzz ... the calm.
The fulness and the emptiness.
I need art.
If I am not gonna make it, I need to go look at it. I am starving...
I want to see colors, I want to see things used in weird ways, I want to smell oil, I want to touch clay, I am so, so ready.
So tomorrow, I am driving down to Seattle and I plan on ingesting as much art as I can; in museums, in studios, in galleries... I need a refill.
And then, in not too long, maybe when school is out, I can set up my easel on the deck and paint again...
.
I know when I have tipped the balance.
I wake up with a little bit of buzz.
I lose stuff.
My elbows feel funny (really).
I have to remind myself to breathe deeply.
My mind has a lot less empty space.
I feel the slightest sense of ongoing panic.
Yuk.
Time to get it back. Time to eliminate.
