Today is a grey day. The wind is blowing, tree limbs bobbing back and forth in the breeze. Warm, but not oppressively so.
No rain, that will come later.
It reminds me of the open plains. The sky actually seems bigger on days like today than on blue sky days. The poplar trees are probably only 100 feet tall, but they feel like they stretch for a mile as they sway lazily in wind. The flat expanse of my island suburb can almost trick me into thinking it’s Winnipeg, adrift in endless miles of Prairies instead of ringed with mountains. If I drive down the industrial throughfare of Bridgeport with its 1960s low buildings with storefronts behind small parking lots and small warehouses or manufacturing shops behind onto the alley, then the illusion of being in Winnipeg is even more. Or maybe when I’m in Winnipeg it reminds me of being home driving down Bridgeport.
In dreams I seem to wander such places, small towns and places where small businesses break even and break out.
The studios are in such neighborhoods, always. Another way in which they’re a homeland.
The grey sky implies rain tonight or tomorrow. Maybe even thunder and lightning. A sense of anticipation builds with the ions in the atmosphere.
