Three abreast.

Today I pulled a fabric grocery bag out from under my sink and began to methodically fill it with the guests of honor to mine and Bram's Central American themed dinner party: avocado, lime, organic salsa, Gem mason jars, taco seasoning, a brick of tofu, two bananas and a mango. After arriving, we stood in his modest kitchen and swayed unapologetically to Karen Dalton crooning from a speaker on top of the fridge. 1971 must have been a good year. He whipped up a maize/flour tortilla dough and I showed him all of the tricks of the tortilla-making trade that I happened to have picked up on a trip to Guatemala a few years back. The first two were evidence of our ignorant upbringing by being too thick, but once we got a hang of the rhythm of the aggressive and simultaneous patting, stretching, and twisting, they came out of the cast iron as authentic as can be. Our dinner turned out to be a roaring success and the indigestion that followed suit from the whole foods and raw hot pepper spread merely echoed this notion of triumph unnecessarily so. Still, it was a solid meal.

We finished dinner, licked the lingering lime from our fingers, washed the dishes, drank two mango, banana, strawberry, soy, ginger smoothies in quick succession and opted for a few hours of drawing at the kitchen table. Talk of the country, botany, cooperative gardens, biking, swimming in grain trucks as kids, camping at the Quarry, cooking, familial living, solo living, veganism, meat eatery, music, literature, friendship and love came and went between our downcast eyes, mouths, faces. Drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence; all the while, drawing. It felt nice to get back into it, in a sans pretentious environment.

I was busy working on a format drawing of two separate pieces for a personal stationary collection. A typewriter and four bicycles in a row. Tracing, eyeballing, drawing. Bram was working on a two-leafed emblem and a scroll for my one typewriter drawing. I have yet to master a scroll.

This is the second night I have stayed awake past ten in the evening. It is now one in the morning. Anyway, James came over from the Mansion and entertained us while we sat at the table making art. An evening bicycle ride quickly ensued and together we ambled down the streets of the neighborhood with our back lights blinking out a silent signal of red, white, red; three abreast on the wet streets. It is nice to be home.

Madge.

These photos were taken at the break of Winter last year. Pictured: Scramwell, Drewber, Meg.