I have my box of 36 oil pastels ready to pack as well as appropriate 120# paper suitable for posting in the mail cut into neat little postcard-sized rectangles. Hoping to stave off any color-withdrawal when I'm away from my job for three weeks. Addicted. To. Color.
And then there's the writing to do, the poetry, the long letters, the blogging. The reading. (Too many books, as always.) And the cooking: bramley apples (pie!), Liam's potatoes, yeasty loaves, a pizza or two, a John Dory fillet. The beach-walks, the wind, tea in the afternoons. A pint at Matt Molloys. The drive out to Achill Island, and Doo Lough. And the bogs: every shade of amber, and slatey greens.
O! Pinch me: three weeks of self-indulgence.
I told my son: no crises.
1. heart attacks
3. home invasions
4. irascible roommates
5. dead cars, cats, refrigerators, washing machines
6. clogged drains
(But most of all, the light, and the colors.)