Old Age, Not War, is Hell

Caribou Mahogany coffee in the Chicago skyline mug, the faint beeping of the construction vehicles backing up as they build a house next door for background music. Chan Chan by Buena Vista Social Club plays in my head. The book progresses (though slowly), the production work progresses (on schedule), and I spent the weekend learning to make paperweights in production. Making them in production is a lot harder than either making them for fun or making them for retail sale. Paperweights made for fun are always perfect, and if there is something you consider an imperfection in paperweights made for retail it doesn't matter as flaws are in the eye of the beholder so someone either buys it in spite of or because of the "flaw"--or doesn't see it as either--or doesn't buy it. But production paperweights (55 of them) made for the same client need to be perfect... and identical.

Tadashi made most of the paperweights while helping me hone my skills, and this week it's up to me to grind and polish the bottoms--not because we didn't firepolish finish the bottoms, but because I then have to sandblast the client's logo on the flat, polished bottom. It will be a full week. Oh yes--and writing, and projects to write about.

Right now I am sitting at the orthopedic (though they spell it orthopaedic) surgeon's office with my mom waiting for her to get in to see a doctor about removing the calcifications from the top of her foot that have grown into the tendon. Being old is hell. It's not so bad growing old, but I look around me at those who have arrived at old age (at least those dealing with orthopedic issues, which is probably all of them), and it doesn't look any fun at all. I want to live forever, but I don't want my body to wear out along the way (my mind either).

But growing old (heck, maybe even growing up) is for future Brenda. Present Brenda needs to get back to writing about gravity and glass.