Last summer when I had shingles, I drove out to the beach every day. I sat in the sand, I sat in my car, I napped, I read. There’s nothing written in my journal for those days; I accomplished nothing at work, or on the house; I didn’t see friends, or write, or exercise. In some ways it’s as if those days didn’t happen.
And yet there they are in my memory, dreamy, significant. I look back on them fondly and with gratitude.
I think I was a different person, before and since.
This afternoon I drove back out to the beach. I don’t have shingles, but I’m here sitting in the sand. I have a book. I may read it, or I may just be.
In Jakarta I met a variety of people. More than a few of them said they use Instagram because “it’s my existence.” I don’t know if the phrase was an artifact of translation or what they perceived as the literal truth – but I do believe that a large part of the draw of social media is the instinct to carve out “I was here.” And in an increasingly human-dense world, in an increasingly interconnected and blurry society, for good or ill, doesn’t that make sense?
I too was here.
Diebenkorn has for years been one of my favorite artists. The clean lines, the space, always create a sense of calm and peace, with some really great California light thrown in for a bonus. In this case, I also like the way the lines and color of the stairwell echo the painting.