It's Cold

When the temperature is 18 degrees and it's blowing a full gale, light snow skittering, it's hard to get comfortable. I google the weather and see that Mac is probably getting hammered with Lake Effect Snow. We live where we do for one reason or another. I'd rather be someplace warmer, but here I am. Walking in a winter wonder land. It's not easy, but I'm not dead, and it's beautiful, the way white blows across your face. It's winter, come on, you should be used to this, a fact of nature, buck up, no one promised anyone a free ride. Phone company says I should have phone tomorrow, so I elect to work late and go home early tomorrow. Temps are dropping like a rock. Even a below zero day, with six feet of snow on the ground, was more comfortable in western Colorado. When I talked with Sara she mentioned Mary's diaries and where they were. Got them out today and started poking around. TR and I started packing up the painting show. Three shippers (the "three friends" in Chinese art are bamboo, plum blossoms, and pine) and over a dozen destinations; we tried to keep things as simple as possible and label everything clearly. It's difficult to remember how every single thing was packed, so we end up making some improvements. Handling it all again, I'd have to say that subjective art springs from the inner personality, which means that all psychotic art is subjective, just a thought. I read today that a paidogeron is a symbolic picture (a symbol of what?) that depicts a child, with, for instance, a beard. After work I went to the pub for a beer and ended up talking with some guys I know by sight, but had never talked to. They were interested in my life, what brought me here, and I gave them the short version, which hardly does justice, and wondered how they could believe anything I'd say. I don't believe my life, I can't imagine anyone else would. I have several dead skinned animals in the back of my truck that I intend to eat, with gravy, on toast. It's not a statement, just dinner. Eat local.