- printing out an invoice to mail to Fodor’s.
- bathing the dog.
- reading a book about pirates (for a new Fodor’s assignment).
- doing the NYC podcast for Craig.
- watching a movie with Francisco, enjoying these moments of quiet before everything changes.
- thinking about how to make my mom comfortable as she visits us in our teensy apartment until the baby arrives.
But I have to write.
You know how it is.
Or half dead.
And I don’t want to be that.
So I write.
Here’s what I took away from it: There’s a group of artists in Matanzas, Cuba who know words and books are so important that they dedicate their lives to creating handcrafted limited editions of texts: their own, others’, famous and otherwise. They use whatever materials they can find, and the products are these exquisite pieces that elevate the stories being told.
I liked how this wasn’t romanticized, as anything related to Cuba so often is.
And I like to think, right now, about getting back to that kind of realness: where process and product are equally important, and where each is given its full moment and its highest expression.
Weeks later, that exhibit still keeps hitting my reset button.
Which is good. Real good.