It has been a summer like fall, and I have been quietly glad. Glad, because this is my favorite weather for working. In the hot sun I melt into squishy siesta. I get very little done.
Instead I have been working on my wagon, and as I proposed, Things Are Happening. I’ll be damned if I don’t really get the inside of the thing done before my mid-July birthday after all. I daydream about details: the color of the trim around the bedroom* window, the place where I will hang shelves above a little round table, the lion doorknocker I dream of finding at a flea market just as I’m putting on the finishing touches. It is what I have been daydreaming about for months, but the images are becoming more vivid.
My book writing has been on hold for the last few weeks while I’ve dealt with other things. But the wagon marches on. I am writing to you covered in fine paint dust from freshly sanded walls; this afternoon I will apply the first coat of yellow paint, and the third of blue in the “bedroom.” Soon I will be writing pages from between its cheerful yellow walls and inundating you with pictures of the finished beast. My little wagon ship.
*You would probably laugh at me calling it a bedroom if you saw it. But what else to call it? My bed, sidled up against the far wall, will be partitioned off with a shelf, like its own little room. But the room itself will be exactly the size of my bed, which I reckon most people would be more prone to call a closet.