woollyflocked

Hey there, chickens.

I'm writing this from the beautiful (okay, not so honest) Tacoma, where I've found probably the nicest coffee shop in the whole vicinity, and the baristas are even wearing plaid. It's great.

I thought I'd prime myself for a new onslaught of coffee in my life. From this moment on, Robin will be considered a Coffee Snob, and but will also secretly enjoy crappy coffee at diners because that's also great, sometimes, too. Tomorrow I head to Seattle with the lovely Ava and friends, before Sunday I make the Epic Move To Portland to begin the chapter In Which Robin Goes to Real Art School.

I'm missing Vermont already, so I keep looking at photos of that perfect place and daydreaming about the loom in my aunt and uncle's house in Shelburne. Moving between aesthetically-careful architecturally-bomb-diggity to rompous-college-house in which taking out the trash is Not a Priority, I'm a little bamboozled, and perhaps have found haven in this hip and spare Bluebeard's cafe.

I'm looking at Irina Troitskaya's sketchbook today, and considering how I myself need to settle down somewhere and start doing some serious artwork again, after a long hiatus of learning how to do nothing and enjoying reading novels all day as the Main Event. But (and here you may hark at these First World Problems) I'm getting restless after so much vacation, and I'm reading Rudolph Steiner's scary-weird essays about Spirit and Karma and Destiny in order to divine my own, personal DHARMA.

For now, I'm spending all day on Craigslist, scrolling through the hippity-hip Portland ads and coveting certain Antique Bright Green Schwinn Road Bicycles, and wondering what kind of cat I'm going to get, and if my pre-ordained name Small (thanks, Ms. Dillard) will fit him/her perfectly.

That's all for now, my ladies and gents. Enjoy these Vermont yums, I'm off to drink the rest of this americano and decide what I actually think about Gabriel Garcia Marquez.