I promised myself that I would no longer gulp down my lunch (yes, I know, it's 2:45 p.m.) salad like a milkshake than suffer the digestive repercussions later. I don't know if I'm going to live up to the promise since I seem to be doing everything in hyper-mode this last week.
Today, so far:
Art History class, which consisted of a slide presentation by the Professor on the masking traditions of Oceania. Some of this stuff I've seen already (Freshman and Sophomore years) but some of it was new, kind of humorous, and from my tweaked perspective very and interesting.
Of particular note, was the presentation on the Abalam people (I've probably got the name wrong) but, anyway, the men of this culture pride themselves on the growing of yams. In fact, they grow them so long (some much longer than the actual length of the men that grow them) that they dress them up in temples and worship them as anscestors or spirits.
Needless to say, this brings my whole belief that men (even in our so-called civilized culture) worship and revere things that are longer than they are wide.
Take for instance the Corvette or the Testarosa (my pet name for this car was the Testosterone) or most any sports car of world renown.
Untold numbers of men in our culture spend a large amount of time on the care and maintenance of their automobiles. When I was married, I once accused my ex-husband of spending more time rubbing the body of the car than he did mine.
But then, I wouldn't brake on command.
O.K., so I'm back now in the present time, or as Eckhart Tolle would call it, the eternal now.
The rest of the eternal now was spent in the painting studio where I have determined that at this point in my career I really suck at trying to attain a likeness of the same face I have looked at in the mirror for lo these fifty some-odd years. That should get better with time and practice (and, some patience on my part.)
After a bit of a frustrating time in the painting studio, I headed circuitously back home via the foundry where I stopped to add yet another coat to my toxic ceramic shell so it can be ready for a bronze pour sometime this week.
I'm home now, with a salad on one side of me as I type and a cat on the other side purring. There is nothing in this world as centering for me as the sound of a cat contentedly purring while I type away on this almost noiseless pad.
As soon as I clean up my garlic layden, sprout encrusted plate,I'll be off to the UPS store to return an impulse buy that I really don't need.
Perhaps I shall (and perhaps I shan't) type more later.
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