Low lying.

It is an ungodly hour and Tara just walked past my spot by the window. She on the outside of the atrium and me on the inside. It is dark, save for the newly installed Albert Diner glowing orb of a sign suspended from the highest part of the glass atrium. It is nice in here. Warm. There are plants that I have rescued and tended. There are also plenty of drunk people in dark coats walking in and out of the Royal Albert Arms for a (terrible) show. I just served them yam fries and personal pizzas. I also made a million gallons of corn chowder with fresh cilantro, cumin, coriander and yam soup. All of these things happened long after midnight and long after my body was wishing for the comfort of my bed.

Lo slipped me a note under the hot service bar today at work while I was cooking up a storm and trying not to fall over from the heat. The note written in her pretty penmanship on a diner chit read, "Are you okay? You look sad. I love you" and I nearly cried. She is going to be a great mother someday. I was sad, but not terribly. Sad only because time is tick tocking faster than I can even imagine and even though it is only the first week of February, it feels very nearly over. With this in mind, I am softly mouthing Jillian's mantra over and over: one day at a time. One day at a time. One day at a time.

In the interim I will keep running. Yesterday JF and I ran four miles on the river, winding around the people and the suspended huts (GO SEE THE ORB hanging from the train bridge at the Forks!!) and it was completely necessary to my sanity. Everyday running is completely necessary. Even for a moment.

Okay. A selfish note now. For those keen, the portfolio has become my child. A phantom limb. Missing fingers lost in a terrible machinery accident that still insist upon curling around a delicate tea cup even though they are not attached to the hand anymore. A beast of burden. A kite. A vehicle. An escape. And a half demon. A courtship. I love it and I hate it only because there are not minutes in my daily bread to commit to it as much as I would like. I am married to these concepts in my head because I think they will be beautiful folded into my handmade folio. With all of these things in mind, I leave one kitchen and go hi ho to the next one at the studio that reeks of paint thinner before I have even touched the handle and hunker down with samples and mock ups and drawings sprayed in front of me like some sort of forever-growing amoeba.

Today after showing the portfolio mock up to Andrew and Drex, they helped me trim the fat with kind words. Thank you boys, you are saving me. I am fine, I will be fine. I am fine, I will be fine. Right now, all I am wishing on is a coffee date with Rabbi, a dinner at Rags' table, and one solid week at Martha Street.

I will be fine. It will be fine.

The sign shines on like a low lying moon in Winnipeg--The Albert Diner--and it is a reminder that I am nodding off while people chainsmoke outside the glass walls. Goodnight moon. Goodnight pals. Goodnight brain, you are being turned off now.