Pete is working at the film festival, where I hope we'll see Pan's Labyrinth. Aubrey is back at school after the holidays, but Orion and I slept until a clatter and crash brought us both sleepy-eyed to the windows. The winds seem to be here early. Don't think so, but this morning is bright, chilly and violent. Two more of our sails tore loose and whipped about like tentacles, knocking over pots and beating several plants senseless. I stumbled out like Dorothy, jumping about to snag an end before it got me. Refreshing!
This isn't the windy season. It's the rainy season. I shudder to imagine the windy season beginning now, with things so dry. Despite the god-like persistence of the mountains around us, the desert always has a sort of fragility about it. It's time for rain.
Once I got the fabric safely rolled up, I grabbed a couple of grapefruits. A glass of juice straight from the tree is so energizing I fancy I could substitute it for morning coffee. BWAAAAAHHH. I crack me up.
Little invention would be had without the impetus and comfort of coffee.
It amazes me at how much of the job of being an artist isn't making art.
The last couple of days have been spent preparing images to send out for new stories. It's a particular kind of experience, to send my work to authors for this purpose. After all, the art is written in the particular language I speak to myself. But Peter Beagle and Neil Gaiman will decode the visual images independently, applying their unique perspectives.
---which means there sure isn't any guessing at the results. What I do know is that the stories will be surprising and good. Really good. This is very satisfying. Sometimes this job is OK.
My coffee cup is empty, Ben will be here soon. Time for work.