Tea: Lemon
Music: The Doobie Brothers, "Black Water"
Time: Night.
Wow ... just looking at my weekend schedule has me wiped out, and it's only Thursday.
I'm solo parenting Friday and part of Saturday, because of a women's retreat at the church.
These are my whenabouts so far -- and because my life is what it is, they are always subject to change:
Friday morning, ca. 8-9 a.m.: Rouse son for ten-mile hike (still have no idea where we're going).
Friday afternoon, upon returning: Trying to get out some pitch letters before ...
Friday afternoon, 4 p.m.: Pick up Mrs. Steep from work, drop her off at church.
Friday evening, 5 p.m.-whenever: Arts stuff, arts stuff, arts stuff. There's an opening at Leopold Gallery in Brookside, and the usual Third Friday things downtown and in Columbus Park.
Saturday: The two oldest kids have things going on at Mission Arts and Eats, here in the home'burb, plus my son has play rehearsal. So, basically, morning to early afternoon, I'll be getting them where they need to go and trying to check out the artists. Then I'll try to catch part of Holly Swangstu's opening at J. Bird Studios in Kansas City, Kansas, and then I'll bail to cover a 7 p.m. Kansas City Wizards game. (I have to be there well before kickoff.)
Oh, did I mention the Plaza Art Fair is this weekend? I'm going to have to cram that in Sunday afternoon, in between church stints.
Then Monday brings three deadlines, 1,300 words total.
I need a clone. Why should I have all the fun?
Showing posts with label Plaza Art Fair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Plaza Art Fair. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Cup VIII: The Past, in Passing
Tea: Moroccan Rose and Mint
Music: Howard Jones, "No One is to Blame"
Time: Late night into early morning
Going to crowded street festivals alone is both strange and settling.
I talk to strangers -- a necessity for a freelancer. The next person I chat up just might have the greatest story idea ever, or maybe just an interesting story to borrow, adapt and weave into something fictional.
But in the next moment, I slip into observer mode and become almost invisible. It's an oddment, though, that I always seem to be walking against the stream of people when I'm in that frame of mind and sense.
Last night (or earlier tonight, if you will) at the Plaza Art Fair, I was in sociable form early on. I joined mailing lists and entering drawings for free tickets to hear chamber music or a symphony orchestra, take in "The Nutcracker" or a Broadway musical revue, see a play at the Missouri Rep -- or maybe something a little edgier at the Unicorn (or perhaps, if I'm really lucky, a play about flesh-eating zombies.) I'm not even that big an opera fan, but I'd be up for some Puccini or Mozart if I happened to score free tickets. And while the Shakespeare productions every summer are already free, reserved seats -- not to mention guaranteed parking, which can be a pain -- would be pretty cool, too.
I ran into someone I hadn't seen for several years, only to find out she works for my cousin. Two minutes after that, alone once more, the switch flipped and I was on the outside looking in.
Sometimes I notice faces, sometimes something in a frame, sometimes a snatch of conversation. This time, it was a swish of red hair, a few inches past shoulder length.
We passed, going opposite directions on Nichols Road. She was with her family, perhaps part of a larger group. It took a few seconds for the memory to kick in.
We dated -- twice, I think -- more than twenty years ago. Never a gigantic spark, which is one reason there weren't more dates, but I was on sort of a mission to go out with every attractive redhead on campus.
Hours later, I still can't recall her name. Surprising. I'm usually good with names. There was a moment, when I was still trying to figure out who she was, in which I thought she might have recognized me. If she did, she didn't show it. No offense taken; I look a good deal different now.
She has aged beautifully -- but her smile still doesn't touch her eyes.
Music: Howard Jones, "No One is to Blame"
Time: Late night into early morning
Going to crowded street festivals alone is both strange and settling.
I talk to strangers -- a necessity for a freelancer. The next person I chat up just might have the greatest story idea ever, or maybe just an interesting story to borrow, adapt and weave into something fictional.
But in the next moment, I slip into observer mode and become almost invisible. It's an oddment, though, that I always seem to be walking against the stream of people when I'm in that frame of mind and sense.
Last night (or earlier tonight, if you will) at the Plaza Art Fair, I was in sociable form early on. I joined mailing lists and entering drawings for free tickets to hear chamber music or a symphony orchestra, take in "The Nutcracker" or a Broadway musical revue, see a play at the Missouri Rep -- or maybe something a little edgier at the Unicorn (or perhaps, if I'm really lucky, a play about flesh-eating zombies.) I'm not even that big an opera fan, but I'd be up for some Puccini or Mozart if I happened to score free tickets. And while the Shakespeare productions every summer are already free, reserved seats -- not to mention guaranteed parking, which can be a pain -- would be pretty cool, too.
I ran into someone I hadn't seen for several years, only to find out she works for my cousin. Two minutes after that, alone once more, the switch flipped and I was on the outside looking in.
Sometimes I notice faces, sometimes something in a frame, sometimes a snatch of conversation. This time, it was a swish of red hair, a few inches past shoulder length.
We passed, going opposite directions on Nichols Road. She was with her family, perhaps part of a larger group. It took a few seconds for the memory to kick in.
We dated -- twice, I think -- more than twenty years ago. Never a gigantic spark, which is one reason there weren't more dates, but I was on sort of a mission to go out with every attractive redhead on campus.
Hours later, I still can't recall her name. Surprising. I'm usually good with names. There was a moment, when I was still trying to figure out who she was, in which I thought she might have recognized me. If she did, she didn't show it. No offense taken; I look a good deal different now.
She has aged beautifully -- but her smile still doesn't touch her eyes.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Cup VII: Ars Gratia ... (What's Latin for "Making Me Less Grumbly?)
Tea: Vanilla Lapsang
Music: Whatever's on my car radio.
Time: Evening.
I'm blahful and cranky tonight. Going to the Plaza Art Fair will, I hope, restore me a bit.
More tomorrow, I'm sure.
Music: Whatever's on my car radio.
Time: Evening.
I'm blahful and cranky tonight. Going to the Plaza Art Fair will, I hope, restore me a bit.
More tomorrow, I'm sure.
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