Fingerpaintings

Lunch

Violent winds have mellowed outside. Studio is so porous that "inside" is a generous term. Cold permeates the corrugated metal wall. I walk past covered painting stacks, and hop on the wall ledge to force a pane open to allow in modest gusts. The fabric window cover is thrown to the ceiling. Shadows flail exposing cool bright outside. A play of white's personalities -- cool blue, warm yellow, murky brown. Each reveals somethign about each other. A captivating diversion until the sun descends and rats enter along exposed metal ceiling beams and window gaps. They wait for the relative darkness of my departure to interrupt the floor dust with delicate paw tracks.

Fluorescents loll at chain end. The view of sun is as much as I can take, in my post-review state. I've had to sit near the Kleenex box on the amtrak so days in a row. Studio is grim. The brownie, tea, and Mediterranean sandwich discovery just two blocks from school is a needed one. Sweet, savory, without too much external warmth.

dinge

Studio is colored by a varied palette of whites. Texture is provided by rats, ceramic dust, neglect. High ceiling and outside light are promising, but years of dinge and nightly droppings, undermine any sole claim to the space.

i drove to the backside of the picturesque green hills lining highway 80 east in mid-ca.
i visited 5 "distinct communities ". when i squint down my eyes, homes become a mass of peach and tan texture against vivid green hill. a hefty wooden trellis abuts a station where the private security monitors visitors. i drive around 15 minutes and see under 5 people outside, and three times as many landscapers. The houses look to be over 4000 sq feet - shoulder to shoulder, but with some variety in plantings, british village-type trim around the windows and entryways. The eastern communities have more variety than the western. But there is something inherently bizarre and sad about both places. They feel unnecessary. There is no visible town, port, or hub. Streets are bisected by golf cart crossings and the only visible store is a newly opened dry-cleaner, and country club lounge. An apparent desert excluding the plaster and stone dwellings pooled in the valley floor. The only sound is of hammer and saw, as new boxes make their way up hill.