Today is poetry.

I woke up this morning to the sound of resurfacing road equipment dragging along the dewy pavement and clanking against the curb. My shower felt especially refreshing as the hot water steamed up the tiles, clearing my formally congested chest. I dressed in a jade colored sweater, piled on bright green mascara and slipped into my favorite nine west peep toe heels.
Hooray! I'm cured. Aside from a raspy voice (that Phoebe of Friends would truly admire) I am feeling like a new person today--I even lasted an entire day at the office!
It feels like a Thursday...tempting me with the approaching weekend. I can't wait to enjoy the early August sun this weekend.

A little Walt Whitman to get the health streak back on track:

"I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means."
(from Song of Myself)

That is awesome. simply awesome.
Happy August.

(did you know that august means "to be profoundly honored" like a revered holy man or king...ironic how most people hate August because it ends the sweet sweat of summer and starts the sticky first days of school where it is too hot to be in the linoleum coated classrooms...)

The Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
...
--Wordsworth
(read more of this light, summery wonder of a poem here. i read this over and over and over in high school...it's very airy.)

This summer postcard swap has gotten me back into poetry and artful reading...not just creating again.... hooray!

Edward Hopper.

Let's try to post this again...

Finally, a few moments of time to write about Hopper. Today was one of those days where I really felt like staying in bed for an eternity. (I did in fact lay around the house until 4pm!) I spent time flipping through my notes from Boston, both from my enlightening conference and the trip as a whole. I also walked through, for perhaps the twenty-third time, the book of postcards (or as I think of it, the cheap alternative to the exhibition's book) that I picked up at the museum book store.

The exhibit was set up in four rooms, each devoted to one or several periods of Hopper's visual eras. The rooms were packed with people speaking a multitude of languages, looking at the art close and from afar, dancing around each in search of a better view. I weaved my way through the maze of people, getting as close as I could to the paintings I had only seen in Mark Strand's book and those I had never had the priveledge of viewing. There is something magical about seeing the majority of an artist's life pasted on the walls, in the same place. I felt like I could truly SEE the progression, and the changes, and the strokes, and the beauty in each work as it related to the next.

Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning
and the morning goes.

More soon, but for now, enjoy the poem above...the link features Mark Strand reading "From the Long Sad Party" of which this stanza is the first. These four lines describe some of Hopper's paintings....look at Cape Cod Morning