Moving to France

Ack.  Not a good day.  Could not get myself to do any of the things I wanted to/should have done.  The big secret I keep is that it's hard for me to get and stay motivated, and always has been.  In an ideal world, I would have gotten up early, gone to the senior center with my painting supplies for the "open studio" session; then I would have gone to the pool for a swim.  Then I would have come home to rest, maybe changed the sheets on my bed.  Then I would have gone to the First Friday Art Walk downtown, where all the galleries put on a new exhibit, serve food and wine, and the people schmooze.

As it was, I did almost nothing except run to Target, pick up prescriptions, make a couple of business calls, watch "House" reruns, surf the net, and stop at the liquor store.  The woman behind the counter was complaining about politicians and bemoaning how sad life in the U.S. has become, and how she was gonna consolidate her assets when she retires next year and move to France.  Sounded good to me.

I was so tired this morning.  Then I had trouble breathing, couldn't take a deep breath.  Don't know if it's anxiety, allergies, my intermittent asthma.  Since I've been here in Florida, I've developed recurring mucous in the back of my throat, something I've never had before.  Doc says that often when people move from one region of the country to another, they can develop allergies to the new pollens and spores that exist.  Also, I cannot stand this heat month after month.  I was so vitalized when I was in California for two weeks in August; the cool coastal temps suited me.  In the north folks get cabin fever from avoiding going out in the cold; down here we get cabin fever from avoiding the heat.  I am so looking forward to winter here.

If I had gone to the Art Walk, I could have attended Thomas Glover W.'s memorial exhibit.  He tragically died at 63 of a brain tumor that was diagnosed last January.  He was a brilliant stone sculptor.  One of the hidden treasures of this area is the Saint Augustine Beach Sculpture Garden behind the police station.  Several of Glover's works are there.  These are photos I took there last year.

I can still see all of the exhibits that were inaugurated this day.  Just without the crowds, which will be better anyway.

Picked up a copy of Steve Martin's "An Object of Beauty," about the 1990s New York City art scene, at a supermarket bargain bin, for five bucks.  Surprisingly, it is holding my interest.  Turns out Martin, a Renaisassance man himself, like Thomas Glover W., is an avid art collector.  And writer.  And comedian.  And musician.

One of things I like about the book is that often when the narrator speaks about a particular work of art, a copy of that art work is printed on the page, giving the novel a kind of authenticity that is pleasing to the eye.

I'm breathing a bit easier now, after my vodka and tonic.