Here in Seattle we've been plagued by massive storms -- none of that "lite" rain which, though seemingly ever-present and having given us our claim to rain-fame, rarely causes much of a fuss. These past seven+ days have behaved quite the contrary. March is exhibiting terrible-two's tantrums: one minute rosy and soft, the next all bluster and spit. I'm worn out by it all.
It's a particular problem when setting boxes out for UPS. Outside this afternoon I repaired the giant umbrella which serves as shelter for our shipments during inclement weather, securing each arm to the disintegrating fabric with zip ties: a bandaid. And not wanting to lug out the massive blue tarps in the wind, I used cut-open packing-peanut bags as both a dry surface for the boxes and as cover, both of which kept flapping up and away in each new gust of wind.
When finally all was secured -- pinned down with mossy bricks -- I hunkered down -- dripping -- and made my way up the steps to the house/factory, feeling for all intents and purposes that the rain had penetrated my skin and cold had settled into my marrow. Such is the glamour of working in The Arts. Once inside, I positioned my sodden jacket in front of the blazing wood stove and got to work with a paint brush and several pots of acrylic paint: lamp black, sap green, perylene maroon, irridescent Aztec.
More orders to ship tomorrow, and the forecast looks just as grim.