we are maybe the worst bloggers ever

Hey, I say next time we try to start a blog we ought to decide where it's going to go. And oh, if we even want one in the first place?

Vicki, you told me to post. I said, I think we should ditch the whole project. You said, Do what you will. And then, um, a week or so later, But it would make such a nice, record, archive? (You used some poetic word, I think, as usual).

Now I'm posting and I have nothing to say. A Story, perhaps? Did I tell you, last week the boy and I went into Chicago to see some galleries. Playing cultured and adult, wearing that prep school blazer I bought in San Francisco when I visited him. We looked at the painting professor's stuff, all large, geometric, but color color. Smooth flat color, sometimes popping shaded color: once, a red pipe just shooting across a plane. And you remember, him telling me in class, Add color! You're being too journalistic!

Anyway, even better, same gallery (Roy Boyd), downstairs, on panel, thin thin layers of Elmer's glue over and over each other with teal acrylic polka dots showing through at varying depths. Very nice: I wanted it to be mine--to own or to have painted, either way.

Lunch at Portillo's. Very full when finished, and we had to sit for awhile to let it all settle.