St. Lucia Sandbar – III

I am some sort of small train wreck. Some small sort of cold/infection has struck and I’ve not been well. As I’m sure you must have surmised by now. Have been abed muchly. Did get about on Saturday nicely for a bit with Jason driving and a fellow artiste who leaves shortly for Berlin residency. We went to see the following at the National Gallery of Art:

At first, it was photographs taken in the early forties of folks on the subway, the clean subway in NYC, slyly, without their knowledge. Then folks in the open air in the fifties, when walking was so normal. Breezy. Clean. Fresh. Then women lost in thought, close up. Then shots from a bus, brilliant! Almost my favorites, then we shift from black and white to color — I’m scared, I said. And we trade up for graffiti’ed NYC dangerous subway lost souls of a different sort, even the Twin Towers in the background in one shot through an open window, a bandaid on a forehead an afterthought, useless, almost for all the bleeding graffiti … I said to my friend … I wouldn’t survive … I mean I eat up the graffiti but I am from the country, the small town … she said, I’m from Chicago, I know what cities are supposed to look like. All I could think of was green. Then we shifted into large portraits of individuals, a postman, others … and glowing strangers from the streets of New York, every individual a saint. It was beautiful. Go deh.

We went to see the three Rothko’s and my friend described the Rothko Chapel in Houston, inspiring me to design a chapel of my own that is not dark, but is still trippy.

We went to see the Miro exhibit and I was fine until I looked into the dog’s eyes and then I got queasy and we had to leave.

Chipotle. Bed.

More memories. I cannot say. Counseling soon.

Saw the surgeon. Shoulder impingement a la bursitis, no surgery but more physical therapy for me post party. Hopefully that will get the sting out. Yeah.

Chupa and fambly moved out over the weekend. Hoooray! Don’t hardly know what to do with all the quiet now that it is finally over and all the trash and vacuuming and hollering is ovah. Whew. She is done. Hopefully a non-abusive person will move in. The Chupa chronicles are finitti. . .

Have been reading Eudora Welty short stories faithfully and have learned to expect death nearly almost always. Was in the waiting room at King VW the other day waiting for the shuttle and told a nice Californian expat couple there about her, since they’d never heard of her (?) Yes, They’re dragging the river in this story, lovely description of the river and trees though. In the end the wife shows back up. She was hiding. He gives her a good spanking which she promises not to tell her mother about. They make up and all is well under the Chinaberry trees. Eudora loves her some Chinaberry trees.

About amyjacksoncc

I am a professional artist, writer and musician creating from my home studio. To view my artwork, visit
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