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Moving Again

I moved last Friday and, though today is only Wednesday, I am at my desk, in my new atelier, eager to write a blog or anything else that will elevate my brain out of boxes into other, more creative thoughts. In search of a café to sit and read, I missed my old, familiar neighborhood and retreated back to my apartment which is so high and bright and cool that I don’t really need to sit in a café to read. Except that when I am here, there is always something to do: a box to unpack, a picture to hang. Getting back to a project after an enforced hiatus is, therefore, a matter of discipline. So I went to a yoga class this morning at my new gym, picked up some lunch, ate the lunch with my husband, discussed the dimensions of a kitchen table we need to buy, and got to work, sort of.

First things first, email. Then more gadgets for my iGoogle. Then I hung another painting, lay down on the bed to read, and fell asleep. Now I am back at the computer writing this blog, a warm up, I suppose. I added the New York Review of Books to my gadgets and read an article about postcards which was well written and interesting. I have tossed away every postcard I have ever received except for one which I have in front of me now. It’s hand painted, a detailed, delicate color drawing of Sarajevo circa 1908, before bombs shattered the city. It was sent to me by a relief worker friend after the most recent war had come to an end, and two mutual relief worker friends returned to the city to get married. Carefully written in a steady hand, it tells a story in twelve succinct lines about the occasion and the city itself, quite different than when the writer was last there. I cannot remember the last time I wrote a postcard. Oh, yes, I can. It was two years ago when I traveled to Alaska. I will not be traveling this summer and I have not, as yet, received a postcard from other travelers. Of course, I have received emails and Facebook postings. In their distillations, they are similar to postcards, and environmentally correct, no? Please advise.

For anyone interested, here’s the New York Review article by Charles Simic, a fine poet:


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