Heaven's Door

I like that version where Dylan plays with The Dead. The flood recedes, a drift of things at the high water mark, down four or five feet in 24 hours. Two crows in a dead snag on Mackletree, I stopped, to hear what they had to say. Doom and gloom, which I really don't buy. Walked K through the physical plant, and we stopped, in the library, she got out books that pertained to the exhibit, displayed them. I'd never thought of that. I use the library more than anyone, but I hadn't thought about keying open books to what was on display. Old dog. New tricks. Nothing matters, but everything does. Saint Paddy's day, I forgot to wear green and got pinched a lot. Reminded me I was not a complete monad, a hermit. Sargent painted one, right at the end, a gestural thing I like quite a lot. Last trip to the holy lands, a grain of salt; an over-exposed photograph of you, shading you eyes, looking at what could be the grail. It might be an academic question, but what is right in front of you? Could be just a trail of horse poop, but might be more than that. Strip away the habit of light, strip away drawing, replace everything with a charged brush. Color, and the stroke, are everything. Look at those Cezanne's from that time. 1905. I make some notes. Color was everything, outlines were a thing of the past. And that's just a first take on what floats in the field. All this water, it bothers me, all the ground is saturated, all the wet-weather springs are spitting forth, water is everywhere. I think about the desert Southwest, where there is no water. Maybe a sprite, the odd outpouring, however many pounds of molten iron.