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2011-09-24 - 8:20 p.m.

sandy pine savannah

at the time, you had the soft, ropy body of an endurance athlete. i remember how i leaned against you, and the point of your chin pressed into the top of my head.

"if i had a rag soaked in turpenoid," you said, "i could wipe a hole in this painting, and we could climb right out into the museum." i bit your sleeve and pulled your arm across my body to make you hug me. i was twelve then, and very young.

the colors in that landscape were objects in their own right. later, i would spend years trying to paint the darkness through the trees at the forest edge.

* * *

this afternoon, my husband and i hiked through a sunshower past the sugarloaf dunes. there were grey clouds overhead, and the ephemeral static light of a plein air painting. under a little grove of bald cypress, the standing water gave way to an infinite luminescent blackness.

sometimes, what holds this world together seems very thin. later, we would stop for milk and donuts by the beach, and i wanted to call you on the phone so badly.

* * *

reading: spinoza's ethics, like an old friend.
listening to: public radio.
working on: dyeing wool in my stinking, reeking indigo fermentation vat - the magic of indigotin reduction.
in the garden: the hurricane lilies are coming up. pow pow pow.

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