My mug is hand painted (I imagine a group of young women friends at a ceramics cafe.) It's lemon chiffon with grass-stain green brush work around the lip and along the flat curve of the handle. On the body is written: Breathe. Mugs are a sturdy physical continuity in my life: dad and grandma, mama's with cream, art studios where they were stained or actually dirty, the UU "sacrament" at church.
I'm cherishing the work of a new artist discovered whose hairstyle was one of a dozen fashion choices at the art gathering that immensely pleased me- light, vibrant silver in unstudied spikes. She had a school aged son, and I loved her presence. Her website is amazing: Elizabeth Perry, Woolgathering.
I'm remembering, too, dancing eyes blue like ice reflecting sky. His hair is white, longish, curls prettily. He sells us beer for the event, watches me a little sympathetically when I pop into a can of cold ginger ale and chatter about motion sickness like I'm apologizing to the world for being a goofy, vulnerable shakiness where I want everything to be purposeful- aesthetically and otherwise strong. He is genuine, smart, and darling. He asks us about our party and is happy to hear "literary"- he tells us he writes, adding: badly. Laura observes that all the writers we've found lately are self-deprecating. Writers are cool, I think, and try to make some silly thing- "Not me! I'm all... my art's awesome" but my timing is wonky and it comes out clangy and weird. My belly rolls.
The beautiful writer and beer merchant continues to charm until we leave. He's been invited and deferred to The Ball Game, and to being not the poet-type who shuns football. He delivers the Longfellow pun joke and it's cool too somehow. Groovy cat, this one. I want to read about his hitchhiking adventures and I am, again, in love with the phrase Creative Non-Fiction.