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Road Trip in Town


Above: Inside SR Harris Fabrics, the bolts of fabric sitting at one end of one row in this immense warehouse of fabric. My journal was left in the car to avoid loosing it in the store (I only had a small purse with me). I worked in a small soft-covered pamphlet stitched Moleskine. (I carry these for notes like car mileage or prices, or simply to have paper to sketch on and hand to someone else while explaining something to them.) Later these pages were ripped out and glued into me journal with other notes.

There are certain things I’m not allowed to do, all my friends know this. For instance I am not allowed to go to Las Vegas. I don’t have a gambling problem, in fact I don’t even gamble, I don’t get the appeal. (I watch poker games on TV and wonder what all the fuss is about because everyone’s tells make it so uninteresting to me.) I can’t go to Vegas because of the noise, lights, and general commotion. Friends have been, and reported back, that it would be impossible for me to survive there because of the distractions, both bright and sparkly and just plain “normal”—one friend reported back that she was convinced I would be captivated by the door knobs in one casino she visited and never get out of the stairwell.

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