Tuesday, September 16, 2003
"Every day is the same," you cried yesterday when we headed for home. O I long for the steady days before they become too short and catch us off guard, arriving home in the dark. I want to be in that groove before then, before long now. I get hooked on action and events too sweet Bea. Maybe our trips and museums and theaters and concerts have been too much. Or maybe just summer in your system still, as you come to terms with sitting at a first grade desk and practicing the straight and the curved line with Ms. S. And your other lessons. But we don't need much to stimulate us into big stories and you-your paintings, your drawings and your epic songs. Or finger knitting upside down on a chair in the handwork room. Maybe just that- a different posture, a new point of view. Supper with grace and a good night's sleep. Love.
On the way to school Monday morning, "Downtown is like heaven". You feel the geography of the city so clearly for someone so young. Chicago is lovely to look up at from the grassy long-garden on top of the parking lot-Gehry looming, a thing made of glass pieces you thought, a sculpture for showing films.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
When I said the female violinist from the last group was a pretty snazzy dancer-a bit of a rock star type really-you replied with a black-toothed slurp of hot vanilla milk. "Of course, she was. Everybody needs a rock star to get their stupid money".
On the way home from the Celtic Fest you wondered if we could chat about movies and things. You are very interested in just exactly how long George Washington had lived. Not how long ago necessarily. And of exactly how huge his domain of power was. You insisted that surely he was in charge of all the suburbs...or that there were no such thing at his time you knew, (though how you knew I'll never understand) but that had there been, he would have been in charge. Because they are supersonic and all that.
