Mmmmm, alarm goes off with the light leaking round the walled curtain crevasses. I jump from the bed, grab the rumbling device from its charge, putting an end to its rhythmic aural harpy reminder that I cognitively premeditated this getting up. Flopping back with an added slithering I become undercover again with said device now wedged under my pillow to muffle its upcoming re-reminder. Bad Kathy, unproductive, grrrr, murmurs the edge of my thoughts. GET UP. This is not art camp, girl friend. This mental morning talking to does me less than good, gentle silence perhaps a better turn.
Each morning, all of three, I've rolled a little later from the warmth of scantily covered the twin. Admittedly the thrum of drizzle on the roof's top is lulling and most artists clearly do not ramble out this early based on the unpeopled streets and studios. I mean it is 5 am. But hey this isn't art camp, this is a key transitional space in which to develop a new routine for myself.
The plan. Up with the sun, which happens to be about 5, develop a write/walk regimen, communal meals, studio, read, studio, write, listen, be present with whom ever I am with even when only with myself, then return to down with the dark and a reflopping back and slithering to be undercover each eve.
Process begun.
Will I be able to get it out of the building upon completion? Grrrr. The light weight frame was a snug fit maneuvering it up the stairwell with its midway right angle and secondary angle into the hallway. Ha, plus navigating three standard door framed thresholds. Knowing my usual self, the tubularly framed structure will be a joke to get out. Think skid marks down the hallway and ceiling.
But my plastic [no trace left behind - Dexterish] is laid and I am ready to get off my duff and haul up the tubes tubes.
Tube on! Move Kathy.
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