I'm on the tail end of four days off which I've spent hacking, snorting, and sniffling. After two years of drought, California is getting socked with endless rain. The weather prognosticators say we're now on the "deluge-a-day" plan until at least the end of March. This means every mold spore within a hundred mile radius is doing the happy, "let's spread our evil" dance. This, combined with my increased teaching schedule, equals my body breaking down. If only I could walk around with hot compresses taped to my face, I'd be O.K. (that's about the only thing that seems to ease the sinus pressure.) I could also use an I.V. drip of migraine meds; I've taken something for headaches every single day for three weeks now.
However, since I can't do any of the above, I guess I'll keep plugging along, husky-voiced and nasal-sounding until my immune system can regroup. Amazingly, I am slowly - very slowly - progressing on art projects. Some days, I only have fifteen or thirty minutes of quality studio time before I need to prep something for work or go pass out on the couch under the influence of decongestant. I've been trying to make those precious moments count. For a while, you'll be seeing work here that I completed in December, prior to "The Great Allergy Bloom of 2016." It doesn't mean I haven't been making art but rather that there isn't enough sunlight to photograph it by.
The pages in this post are from my mini "Unexpected Convergences" journal that I mentioned the post before last. It's a fun little book, a place I can push materials around aimlessly until something captures my attention. My big, dear-to-my-heart projects are going to have to wait until time and health turn in my favor. Hopefully, I won't have to wait much longer.