Friday’s Photo


Here. There. Where’s the smoked paprika?


The past two weeks have been a blur.  The studios and our lives were packed up and moved a bit further south for the next few months.  Within days of unpacking, we began to remember the forgotten things.  I should have made a list.  

A few weeks ago, I read a blog post about a book of six word memoirs. It really struck a chord.  Six words, how hard could that be?  The answer surprised me.  My thoughts, it turns out are more often five words, or seven.  They rarely fit into six. I thought it would be a fun way to keep an abbreviated journal. Like blog posts, my best are written in my imagination  while taking a shower, or in the twilight of my dreams.  By the time I remember to write them down, only the essence remains. 

Here are a few that managed to be caught.  

We left our hill. Into traffic.


Welcome back. Dead mice in toilet.


I sense them quietly watching me.


To admit broken, would mean defeated.


Here, there.  Where’s the smoked paprika?



trip to the beach, adjusting expectations 




I just don't know about the dead mice in the toilet . . .

I hear mice in the walls.

It snowed. There is still snow.

One sweater blocked. 15 WIPs left. (that's an estimate; I don't want to know the truth)

Why am I not an adult?

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