For a while I spent time in coffee shops. Sometimes I would work. Sometimes I would write or read. Sometimes I met people, and often times I was alone.
There was one coffee shop with comfortable armchairs that was a further walk away, but I liked to go there on breaks when the chance to sit meant more than the chance to get a lot done. There was one that had nowhere to sit, no where to stand really - it was basically just a place to buy coffee in an alley - but they made the best soy lattes in town. The place was generally surrounded by boys in skinny jeans. There was the other place with shitty coffee but plenty of outlets to plug in a computer. They also sold wine, and I met a Frenchman there once.
And there was the one where I met the artist who told me that sometimes life is like painting, as if painting was what it was, painting was it, and when life was like painting then life measured up.
I don't paint, but I understand what he meant.
Someone told me today that it seems like I'm in a really good place lately, and that my work is paying off. Perhaps, but still surprising. I'm working through a breakup, the quintessential tv-drama equivalent of not in a good place. I'm often cranky, moody, and go through periods of not wanting to interact with anyone while simultaneously needing someone around.
All the same, I'm dancing a lot. There are all sorts of colors of paint, and all sorts of textures, dynamics, and tempermeants in dancing. Technically, I'm working on dropping the sense of my center of gravity, which has a lot to do with releasing tension held in my cheast and rib cage. Physically, when I do this I feel like I can more easily access the full range of the muscularity of my arms and legs. Emotionally, it makes me feel vulnerable.
(Somehow, all these things relate in my mind. Oh goodness. Goodnight.)