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Sep. 3rd, 2001 10:08 amWhy won't it just end?
Going through the closet last night to assess the damage. All the prints I bought in France in 1996 have been damaged. Even the haunting black and white photo print of the heads from Eros & Psyche, one of the most beautiful statues of all time.
Cut my fingers a little, but nothing too bad. I found one tiny sip of wine nestled in the bottum piece of the bottle. Beautiful wine. I almost hate to wash these clothes and lose that smell of linden trees.
I should be more prompt about responding to my emails probably, since so many people have sent me nice letters full of interesting things. Hopefully I will get to hang out with Suzanne this week, sinc eI haven't been able to go to the Monday night dinners lately.
Daina sent me an email that made me realize how much alike we are, despite thousands of miles and different families and lives. It's like recognizing myself in someone else's photo album.
Much dreaming last night, of a dark cobblestoned city of heavy stone, riding the trams, walking along the street under my apartment windows. Keith lived a floor above me, and we argued for some time about something that never happened. Smoking cigarettes sitting outside on the little balcony.
Going through the closet last night to assess the damage. All the prints I bought in France in 1996 have been damaged. Even the haunting black and white photo print of the heads from Eros & Psyche, one of the most beautiful statues of all time.
Cut my fingers a little, but nothing too bad. I found one tiny sip of wine nestled in the bottum piece of the bottle. Beautiful wine. I almost hate to wash these clothes and lose that smell of linden trees.
I should be more prompt about responding to my emails probably, since so many people have sent me nice letters full of interesting things. Hopefully I will get to hang out with Suzanne this week, sinc eI haven't been able to go to the Monday night dinners lately.
Daina sent me an email that made me realize how much alike we are, despite thousands of miles and different families and lives. It's like recognizing myself in someone else's photo album.
Much dreaming last night, of a dark cobblestoned city of heavy stone, riding the trams, walking along the street under my apartment windows. Keith lived a floor above me, and we argued for some time about something that never happened. Smoking cigarettes sitting outside on the little balcony.
