Took Oona to her dance class this morning. The studio's lobby reminded me of certain wards in a mental hospital (sorry – psychiatric institution ) where I used to work: slouching, half-watching, glazed, overwarm, filled with screams. At least one full-blown psychotic episode abetted by stuffed animals. Meanwhile, behind the glass, the little ballerinas practiced the movements of a sunflower.
Draw things, paint things, write things, make things.