Okay, leaf stuck last night, mostly. The back looks fine, the ribs are not great because they were wetter, but I can live with that. Painting can begin, and breathing, too. We may just finish this thing some day.
Fred put it on our stoop, in the small space between the front door and the little lockable gate at the top of the stairs, where it can get some sun to accelerate the drying process. More secure than just leaving it in the park, but I still have a premonition that Iapos;m going to poke my head outside to find it being used as a tennis racket.
Yesterday was fun. I took two first-year photography grad students to the Glass Fields--a place along the bosque of the Rio Grande where the city used to dump its glass and ceramics in the (weapos;ve surmised) 50apos;s and 60apos;s. Youapos;re walking along on one of the many swampy, cottonwoodsy paths down there, and you walk up an atypical rise, and there they are: acres of sparkly, shimmering, deadly, multicolored beauty. There are weird hills and valleys of the stuff, there are unbroken bottles that have been warped into weird shapes by some unknown heat source, and fragments of everything from cobalt glass to royal crown bottles to fragments of delicately-painted floral china to ceramic dollsapos; legs to the occasional highly-patinated bullet casing. Even the ant hills are beautiful: the little guys have hauled up uniformly-sized fragments of every color of bottle, bowl, or plate imaginable, and created that perfect circle that only ants can create two feet around the entrance. The whole experience is a lot like being on another planet, or at the bottom of the ocean, or six thousand years in the future. Spectrally beautiful, but disturbing.
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