January: the month of disinspiration, if that's a word. The fact of the calendar marching quickly away from January all week has been enough to elevate my spirits.
I didn't go to New York — an unexpected onslaught of wholesale orders required whip-cracking on the homefront, so my boss flew off to Super Bowl Central alone, and I'm entirely fine with all of it.
There's a bouquet of roses on my kitchen table left over from my November birthday. Completely dried, they are the most exquisite "rose" color, a red-going-to-pink, but not quite. An undecided red, a decidedly-not pink.
Ah, color. (It exists for me somewhere on a piece of glass between where the eye meets it and where the light comes through from behind — liminal, nowhere, everywhere, shifting.)