Factory paper.

Yesterday I thought of Giles while dressing in my sassiest running outfit and again as I blasted out the door on the first run of the season. Drawn to the East again, I cruised through neighborhoods I had never noticed before until I found myself panting on a park bench. While resting in the sinking 7 o'clock light of day, it dawned on me while taking in the surroundings from the bench that I had visited that exact spot in October. A sudden acknowledgment of the changes that have whittled my psyche to it's current state within those last four five six months was engulfing. With Mizuno's outstretched, alert ears against a Running Room headband, I sat there unable to cry but wanting to. Quick tears are expected, it is the hardened edge that surprises. It was not the time last night. Finding cheer and laughter has been a lot easier than I anticipated last Spring (from my antsy position at the little desk in the Smith house, wondering where in the world I would be in the Spring of 2011 in Montreal). It is wonderful to be settled for the most part, busy blurred hands, looking forward to coming combustion. For many months now I have been anticipating some sort of rebith, a rocket launch. Of what, to what? I am not so sure yet. But it is nearing, all signs point this way.

In the meantime, I have been stenciling. Here is a snippet of a letter to the TC HQ, carved into magic Factory paper, stolen from Andy Warhol archives (or so I like to think). It is fantastic paper to work with. I hope to get into papermaking some day. Now, spaghetti for breakfast while Le Poulet sleeps on, laundry spins, rain pours. Spring! I have also been drawing since Tiff hooked me up with a river of inspiration. Thanks woman, you know me well. Last night I stayed up until the wee hours, fixated on the detail of three flapper dresses. I love drawing women. Men are tricky.