Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Turning

The weather here seems almost as oppressive as the communist government was. A light snow still falls but still amounting to little. I had feared that the sun had forsaken this place but I found it only partially obscured by the clouds. It is cold. Wet.

My stomach has finally turned. I have tried not to think about the fact that I eat the same soup for days; the same soup that sits on the counter and is heated and cooled over and over. Hot water is sometimes used to clean dishes and never soap-that I've seen, at least. Dirt prevails. Three weeks in is still pretty good and as long as I can force off the insistence to drink the fresh milk or eat the salami to settle my stomach I'll make it through. The chocolate is pretty good here and that always seems to help; a cure all. I guess my stomach is too spoiled with all those crazy health codes.

Another day in the studio, repeating lines over and over. Solid forms begin to take shape. One of those forms will be sacrificed, five will remain. A simple sketch stands tall in steel line. I move one day closer.

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