Faithful readers of this weblog will know that in my "art room", no actual art takes place, except when string maven
scottm graces it. It's an assortment of things bought at dollar stores, home-made musical instruments, chess magazines scattered in a sort of artistic presentation around the floor, and, sadly, scattered dried beans and bulgurs, remnants of musical abandon gone to seed. Rather than "art room", its true appellation should be "Romper Room". But sometimes "romper room" is just what's needed.We liberated the 1 dollar modeling clay from Dollar General and the top of the box in which Office Depot placed my last fix of poetry book copies, to create a sort of artist's space for the earnest modeller. First we made a man I called "Goatee Man". Then my niece, left to her own devices, created sea shells and a sea turtle surrounding a sort of alien palm tree with eyes. The snake, by the way, also had snake eyes.
After dinner, we headed up to make music. We were, shall we say, percussive. I was beating the 20 oz. diet coke can full of ball bearings against the 20 oz. Diet Coke can full of rice. She was shaking the Pringle's can dried bean in a syncopation. We were jazz incarnate, and all we needed was a big glittering ball to become a one-shot noise/disco dance amalgam. I hummed into my didjeridoo made of PVC pipe, to add that world music beat, but it sounded more like that Swiss cough drop commercial. Not that we dance,anyway. We didn't need to dance. We had become the notes--loud, insistent, tuneless. Well, not really. We were both 5 or so, and loud and fun.
We ate brownies to belatedly celebrate her birthday. My dogs thought they'd died and gone to little girl Heaven. One dog did take a break, though, to devote unwanted attention to a "groovy girl" birthday gift. A little canine affection adds character to a doll, I say.
Maybe an aquarium visit tomorrow. Maybe a hike. Maybe just counting clouds, as they float in mid-air.