I’ve got my current favorite record on the turntable and my baby mixing the bass. My calico, Blud—short for Blood Orange—is curled up in my lap. No matter how long I’ve lived here, I’m always amazed by the detail in the dark hardwood crown molding around the ceiling. Every year, the rug seems to seep deeper into the grooves between the floorboards, its soft, verdant curves clothing the floor in moss. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever bought.
Next to the turntable, you’ve got a brayer in one hand and just-cut linoleum ready to be inked in the other. The opening reception for your latest project is later this week, of course; the prints will be just about ready by tomorrow. I’m still stroking Blud as you deftly flip the vinyl to its B-side and poke Start with the back of the inked brayer; incredibly, not a single drop gets anywhere other than your already-splattered hands. I rise slowly to my feet, and Blud scampers away to the bedroom.
Recently, I’ve tried to pick up weaving. I found a loom in decent condition, abandoned in an empty lot down by the beach. The first taxi driver I hailed wouldn’t have anything to do with it—cussed me out for a minute, then sped off to run two red lights. Eventually, some guy in his truck, visiting from out of the country for the first time, took pity on me sluggishly lugging that thing back uptown, and we hauled it back to mine in his pickup.
I’ve got silkworms in a miniature greenhouse in a corner at the foot of the southern bay window. It’s the third generation already; the undisturbed bag of minimally processed silk—cocoons boiled with lye to wash out the gummy sericin, then unwound off the reel—sits hidden under the greenhouse stand, ready to be cleaned and spun again. In our garden, I’ve got Asian pigeonwings, turmeric roots, and beets. This year, the beehive is thriving too; there’ve been no heat waves or acid storms, and the neighbors just planted a new bed of flowers. I reach into the bag of mulberry leaves I picked this morning on my walk around the lake to feed the silkworms. I’ve got some mulberries too; they’ll make a deep purple dye once I’ve boiled them down, which I’m hoping will complement the beet red nicely.
Dinner is a simple affair. You’ve invited some friends, and I’ve poured and plated. We eat without any rush on the patio, where the air keeps steam curling off the dishes and no one breaks a sweat. The radio plays softly under our voices, and we clear everything off the table—slowly but surely. It’s like this all the time. Tomorrow, I’ll open the windows early, let a breeze slip through the rooms, and make blue dye from the pigeonwings. When the weather cools, I’ll finish your brand-new scarf.
"It's like this all the time." beautiful