Weird

Glenn mentioned that you couldn't tell the hippies without a dance card, and I had just gotten my hair cut, I swear, yesterday, because it takes less water to wash short hair. Also, to his question, I probably could get some of the docents to come out to the house, we could set up a shoot. By the end of that day, I'll have them eating out of my hand. I think I'll wear the black bibs, they show off my pallid demeanor. I'd appear less threatening and more like one of the good old boys. Life is strange. D found an interesting word, sfumato, which is that smokey atmospheric effect most telling around the eyes of the "Mona Lisa", and I spent several hours looking at reproductions of early Italian painters. I can do this, because I don't have someone telling me I can't, that I should be doing something else, yard-work, for instance, or burping the baby. You laugh, but other people think it's important. Appearances. Coming up Mackletree, three crows in the road, enjoying a smashed squirrel; I hate to disturb them, so I stop and roll a smoke. Squirrel guts seem to sell for a premium. Part of the charm is that I don't have a agenda, and can be easily distracted. Aphid shit, vine-ripened tomatoes, the spatter of rain on my windshield. Three of anything becomes a list. The first vine-ripened tomato sandwiches, one just a cold open-face with mayonnaise, the second with mozzarella, run through the toaster oven. I'll eat one of these every day until after first frost. Quiet day at work, set up for an musical event in the main gallery, measured everything in the alley so D could do a detailed drawing, washed wine glasses, then left an hour early. Dumped about a hundred hamburger buns (from the dumpster at the bar) on the bank of the lake. The geese were on the other side and launched as a wave to investigate. I escaped a feeding frenzy. The two guys on the dredging scow (The Akron) gave me a toot on their horn. They're pumping the small fines from where Mackletree Creek runs into the lake. Silt is always an issue. For one thing it weighs a lot, and for another, it takes up space. Dams are catchments. In a related field, I was reading about when the Straight Of Gibraltar broke through, the rate of flow exceeded Niagara by a factor of ten, imagine what that must have looked like, realizing you'd have to go around. A trek of years or generations, to get from here to there. A specific bird at the wrong time of day. Subtle clues. Is this whole fabric being manipulated? The only person I don't suspect is myself, everyone else is full of shit. I know what I saw.