Roses and Fig Leaves Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 16 x 14" 40 x 35cm
Rocks (bracelet and choker) Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/newspaper 17 x 24" 41 x 63cm
Flowers in Green Glass Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 18 x 15" 45 x 38cm
I started a little journal a couple of months ago, and really enjoy just jotting down in pen or pencil a few thoughts about the day. It makes me think of Sei Shonagon’s Pillow Book from the 11th century (unlike the tawdry 1996 movie); or Samuel Pepys Diary from the 1600s: only a gazillion times more humble. Both of those rate among my favorite books, ever. Holding the pen in my hand brings out a whole other side of me – and being able to pick the journal up, toss it aside, no thought of electricity or using a keyboard, or “connecting”. It seems revolutionary, like touching dough.
I write about the fig leaves and florescent pink/yellow roses I’ve arranged in the recently found demijohn. Or the look of the butterfly on the cocoa-mat at the front door. Things that are so beautiful, it is difficult to cross the line from visual into written description. There are equally many things I see that just don’t make it into words.
We went to the Panaro river to swim twice this week. We’ve found a new place, easier to walk in. There is an eddy that the neighbors warn about: a vortex of water spinning and pulling one in and down. Fortunately the water is shallow and there are lots of people around. The people vary from old to young – mostly older or middle-aged, some with dogs, often with chaise lounges set up in the water, two or three inches below (and yes, there was a dog on one).
Two men are throwing rocks into a hole in a collection of wood at the base of the bridge. The bridge at this new location is a key feature: one can go under the bridge to find shade. It is a pretty big, two lane bridge. The light filters in from a side and seems like there is illumination from beneath. The two men are practicing their precision throws. We go home (20 mins away), get Harika, and return and they are still there, redder and browner.
On the way down the hill to the river we see a bicycle rider, off his machine, motioning us to stay to one side. We stop and I see he is trying to help a giant beetle cross the road.
Life is made up of so many of these little events. Why is it so hard to slow down and enjoy them?