Choices

Never not nothing. There's always fantasy. Seriously. I should have spent more time with that French group, but I was busy cleaning the back hall. Need trumps desire. My older daughter called (the comparative yields more information) and we discussed Greek drama exactly as if it were modern, which, of course it is. Antigone In Syria. I can't think about everything, so I limit the field to American watercolorists from 1920 to 1940, the specific, as Olson constantly reminds us, opens OUT. My taste certainly has. Another attempt to deal with light, as all painting does, but with a particular slant. I had to stop, coming home yesterday, on Mackletree, because the wedges of sunlight were blinding and I kept losing track of the road. There was a vehicle coming the other way and I thought it prudent to pull over, since I could barely see where I was going, and, naturally, it was the Forest Service constabulary. I know him, to speak to, and he stopped, parallel with me in the road, effectively blocking traffic, though there was none (most days I drive the length of Mackletree, five miles, without ever passing another vehicle) and we talked about ticks and what a lousy morel season it had been. I rolled him a cigaret, and one for myself, and we sat there for a few minutes, talking about the windstorm, and he was amazed that my power and phone were restored. I explained that I let those guys hunt on my property, the guys that cleared power easements, and he nodded, understanding perfectly the pecking order. We talked about ground water and wet-weather springs. I guess, because I'm a military brat, my attachment to place is a different thing than it is for someone who was born and bred in the same general area. There's always a local history, and local characters. It's hard to keep up, without certain devices.