The sun is bright, the sky someplace between cobalt and periwinkle… it would look good on you…. The air 78 degrees and the wind strong enough to make the palm fronds applaud the song of birds whose names I don't know.
It is a perfect day.
I read the paper this morning, and am fixated on the reviews of the surrealists, who made great art while traveling at their whim, loving among themselves, and living outside the box of the moral strictures of their time. (I have concluded, however, that no one will ever make great art or much of a contribution to the world stuck in the suburbs of Houston.)
I don't know what it means. If it will just frustrate me more, or if it just gives me intellectual permission to do that which I love most, to inspire and encourage people who have the talent, the calling if you will, to make art. Whether it is words or sculpture or music or photos or landscaping. Your work gives me joy. It inspires me in turn. It pushes me sometimes.
I am the best I've ever been. I've loved, lost, lived, died. I've made a lot of money, a million friends and enjoyed my children. I've been a good wife, friend, lawyer, lover, leader. All of that has brought me to this balmy tropical paradise of a day. I'm not finished yet.
So this morning I am leaving melancholy to it's creative corner, letting it mature, fester if it must. I don't live in a box, and I don't answer to anyone but myself.
And neither, my lovely friends, do you. You are the best you've ever been right now. I can't wait to see what you do next.
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