The Art in Ordinary

Another week has gone by in this and that. In my London stories and my New York hat.


I took a deep breath, drowned myself in books. Floated in a sea of familiar faces and neighbourhoods.


Deafened myself with music, everyone else with my excitement: my new ukulele is money well spent.


The nights have been too busy for sleep. There are movies to see, friends to meet. Promises to keep.


This is home, sweeter for the time apart. Now I see that ordinary is its own kind of art.

[I thought it might be interesting to throw in here that the cover photo on the banner of my blog is not in fact just random coffee stains, but part of a little thing I painted a year ago. My coffee that morning looked better on paper than it tasted in my mouth.]

the big picture

My shoes are also patched up and good to go again. Good old duct tape.




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