After a few days my clothes take the form of my body.
The brush becomes a permanent extension of my hand, as if I were born
with it. I never notice the intermingled smell of sweat and paint until
someone shows up unexpectedly.
Today it was Tina, the daughter of a family who live in a house
near the meadow. She's just starting college; going back
East in the Fall. Interested in art.
I hired her to organize my slides. Infernal things.
On the road where she lives, the lumber trucks carrying freshly cut wood
come down fast from the hills, and you have to pull off in the ditches
while they streak by. As if they owned the road.