Part of being an artist is taking the circuitous route.
My drawing prof at Pratt—Bill Hochhausen—called it the “joy of confusion.”
I like public transportation, but I didn’t mean to take four buses last week to get to and from Bellevue.
But one scene on my way home made three transfers, chatting with a lady wiping splats of white stains from her shins and shoes (”the Maalox bottle just fell and busted!”) and jumping in a stranger’s car (sweet couple, spoke Russian, I think) to chase a bus I’d missed to find out about the Maalox all worthwhile.
As the #271 touched the beginning of a bridge, the whole window in front opened up a view of very blue-black water.
A plate of lake, beneath the late evening sky, stretching like a yawn of pearls.
