Cut From A Stained Glass Mountain
Snow, party favors, and paint by numbers.
1/19/24
The ground is covered with a thick layer of snow here in Central Tennessee and I don’t think I can remember the last time I’ve seen it stick around for this long. Tucker and I have joked a few times about how we could get used to this, downtiming for months out of the year. The snow really is pretty. I’m looking out the window behind my computer as I type this and flakes are continuing to fall, silently gliding from sky to ground in a dance, whipped around by the wind. I’ve tried countless times to capture just how pretty it is in photos, and all images have failed. That makes it feel more noteworthy though– it’s something only I am witnessing. Right now it feels like it’s just for me. I can only share it with you in words. The best I can come up with is that as I watch it snow, dressed in comfy clothes and a thick sweater, blanket over my lap, candle burning, writing away, I feel like a millennial Jo March.
I’m going to attempt to venture out later– maybe I’ll throw on a long skirt and boots.
Two weeks ago I told some friends that my I needed snow for my mental health and, as silly as it seems, I think I was right.
What came with the snow this week was another unexpected halt on all plans. I’m a professional at halting plans this winter. I got COVID on the 20th of December (my birthday) and subsequently couldn’t travel home for Christmas. We pushed our trip back to the first weekend of the new year. Sick family in North Carolina had us delay that trip. Now the beautiful snow makes for treacherous road conditions not fit for my Toyota Yaris– so we’re hoping to go home next weekend.
We’ve been suspended in time this week with nothing to do but work from home, cook food and play video games. It feels lawless in a way. Time opened up suddenly, and we’re walking around in it. No plans for days. Only work and unstructured free time. Nowhere to go.
1/21/24
I sit down at a cold glass table in a corner between two large windows. I watch it snow (again) and I start to do a paint by numbers for the first time in my life. On the phone to a dear friend I remark that there’s no way my neurosis are going to let me finish this. There are so many places that paint needs to go, outlined in blue, taunting me. He says I can probably finish it this weekend, and I don’t believe him. I begin anyway.
It takes painting 7 colors to crack my brain open and put me into a frenzy of needing to type notes into my phone while holding a wet paintbrush in my teeth.
It’s a rush to get the words out. I am afraid that they’ll leave me and go somewhere else. It makes me feel a level of anxiety that, at first, is concerning. I am desperate for something that I don’t have enough hands to hold. I want to be painting and writing all at once. My mind feels like it’s waking up from hibernation. New forms of expending creative energy tend to do this, but I always forget.
I get up to wash my paintbrush, walking all the way into the kitchen to do so after each color. I’ve been stuck in the house for sometime and it feels like an occasion to switch colors. I’ve started to make a ritual out of it.
I come back to the table, and light a tealight that smells like palo santo. I’ll make an altar out of anything. After all these years it’s still part of my way, even if the religious scales have long since fallen from my eyes.
Onto color number 8, a color I’ve been excited about using called Modernism Mauve. A subtle pink, but still bright enough to stand up for itself.
1/24/24
The snow has all melted. The world feels brighter now, despite it being overcast and rainy. On Monday night we drove out to get pizza from a place we hadn’t really fallen in love with yet. In the past it was expensive, and they didn’t have cheap beer on the menu which seemed like a miss for a pizza joint. This time, thanks to happy hour, great company and the freedom that only being stuck inside for 10 days can bring, the pizza tasted divine. I added it to my list of places that I love in Nashville, the one I reference when I miss all the things from places I’ve lived before. The world feels open again. Everything is feeling a little bit more exciting.
Party Favors
If you haven’t listened to Imploding The Mirage by The Killers in a while, here’s your sign. You’re welcome. In particular Dying Breed and Caution.
If you’ve never read The Egg, a short story by Andy Weir, then maybe you should.
Episode #56 44 Photos ofHeavyweight.
Every time I hear Real Love Baby by Father John Misty it stays with me for days. In my head I sing-song every activity I’m doing to the tune of “our hearts are free”. It’s a gift and a curse.
About a month ago I saw Punch Drunk Love for the first time, and then did a deep dive on Philip Seymour Hoffman. During that deep dive I found So Fierce Is The World by Richard Deming and I’ve thought about it many times since.
Speaking of pieces on grief, I think about Farther Away by Jonathan Franzen all the time, too. I used to qualify this piece when I sent it to people, but I’m not going to do that here. Just know it’s sad and beautiful.
I drink about half a cup of coffee each time I sit down to write and I always do so out of the same Chelsea Faith Ceramics mug that I bought a few months back when someone sent me money for writing this newsletter. It just feels right.
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I am inspired to do a paint by number project