It is important to know one’s limits, and sometimes those limits for an evening are: minor bike repair, nail-painting, drinking one beer, listening to records, and not talking to anyone.
(Which is not to say that I don’t love to talk to some people sometimes, but just that I am limited, in ways that I think I’ve only recently begun to name correctly without apologizing for them or trying to change them.)
I have traveled to Denver (work-related) since I last wrote here. I’ve started the latest volume in my annual Proust project, the fourth of seven, Sodom and Gomorrah. My nails are turquoise to match the spot color in Distance 02, a new tradition. I have thought some about how painting my nails has become an important little ritual in the past year or so: something about my love of obnoxiously bright colors combining well with forced stillness and inaction and slowed-down observation and acceptance of my usual surroundings. I was surprised by the locked groove that ends Slow Note from a Sinking Ship. I’ve considered what to do in my Sketchbook Project journal. I’ve worked on adding a monthlong backlog of photos to Flickr. And in the midst of some of that it’s started really seeming like summer.