Overtime

Holy smokes.  A long, hard day at the factory, unusually so, ended with a shoot in the studio last night.  I hadn't anything but candy to eat all day.  We opened a bottle of wine and she began showing me that suitcases full of clothing she had brought.  Not just clothing: shoes, vintage jewelry, hair accessories, makeup. . . . I was overwhelmed.  A real professional she was.

"We won't need all that," I said.  But first the showing and then the readying took a long time.  Long enough for me to almost finish the first bottle of wine before we even started making images.  Fortunately I had bought some mixed nuts.

A long shoot and then a long clean up.  It was almost too late to get anything for dinner.  I stopped at Chick-Fil-A.  Came home and heated up a can of Amy's organic beans and cracked a beer.  Answered emails, watched Bob or John or what's-his-name Mahr's HBO show buzzing and tired at once.  Some after dinner drinks, and bed.

I slept until eight.  I never sleep that late.  And I have to be back to the factory today at ten for overtime.  The day is gorgeous and I will miss it all.  I am not rested.  It was not a restful sleep but a misery sleep, for I have many things weighing on me now.  You've had that sleep that is not sleep, the sleep without rest, the sleep you keep waking from screaming.

Now I must go quickly.  I have not gotten to do much of my morning ritual but for coffee and some news.  But check out the New York Times online section on the art season.  There are some good things there.

But I must dash without wit or wisdom.  And so it goes.