I checked out of the hotel and walked down to the rail station, feeling kind of deflated. I guess I thought that “city street painting” meant painting on a city street, not painting a street scene from a picture. It was useful to have a live instructor taking my brush and showing me how to make adjustments, but I felt let down anyway. I passed a couple of buildings that would have made better paintings and cussed at them. Some homeless guys took this as a good sign that I might be someone to bum cigarettes from, and I had to disappoint them. Sorry boys, I am just your average small-town librarian yelling “motherfucker” at decorative cornices. Sat waiting for the train, watching pigeons circle the street and donkey engines* chomp up rocks nearby. A smelly guy made loud kissy noises at me all the way to the airport, but I didn’t notice until he disembarked because I mistook the sounds for train noises. Being clueless is kind of like being cool.
Waited in the airport for 4 hours, drawing mushrooms for my forest-foraging friend who took me to Lardo the night before. Flew into the California fires. It’s hard to breathe in the SFO airport. I want to be home. That’s a good thing to feel, right? Returning to a place you’ve left is not the same as never having gone, and knowing what you don’t want is important. Knowing what other people don’t want is useful, too. Knowing not to schedule 30 kids for a class visit the morning after an exhausting trip would be invaluable. But there we are.
*I know excavators are not donkey engines, but these things remind me of the 1986 movie "The Quest" with the lake monster called Donkagen.
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