Sunday, November 19 (yet another day that felt so frazzled, it was difficult to notice anything)

• The bottom, unopened leaves of a banana tree look like ribs wrapped in sinew. The edges look like hair.

• in the early evening, the shadows of the tree on the asphalt is pale violet. The streetlights glow like small moons.

• All the faces in the bus seems surrealy vivid and distinct: the old man with the rock-star long hair over his tanned, lean face; the mother in a bright headscarf leaning over the baby in the multicolor blanker. A woman whose face looks like a Renaissance painting in a long ill-fitting pinstrike black coat, thick stocking and heavy sneakers. The lines on her coat pick up the pale gold of her hair, glowing in the crowded gloom.
  Across me sits a composed elderly woman with short, dyed dark hair, deep set dark eyes, wide sharp cheek bones. She reminds me of someone, but I can't figure out who.

• In the sink, the two cups set up a composition in inversions: one green outside, one green inside. The red circle of the drain adds another circle, while the cutlery cuts through in lines of violet. Am I the only one who keeps seeming the mess of my house as small, perfect still life paintings?

• The stacked dishes in the dripdryer create a composition of reds blues and yellows: bright cadmium red and dark maroon in the front, with a spot of red leading back'; a triangle of bright blues ofset by the dark spot of the ultramarine container, behind, the half circle of orange yellow.