#12, July 2005
"I, forest" second try.
Old men in dawn woods.

July 23, 2005. Lac Ouaureau, early morning.
#12, July 2005.

Just start, don’t think about it (it = anything) and especially don’t think about that (death) because you won’t like what you think.

What there is on the studio table—no matter what else there is—is tea leaves left in the bottom of the cup. That is, odd marks of no meaning but what you imagine that day,

[Early morning sunlight flickers into the studio through the trees. It shines on the paper under my hand as I write—make light.]

When I rose this morning at seven, walked nude out onto the deck hanging among the trees over the lake--strong winds, sun in the tree tops. Let the forest in. (Let! how could you stop it?)

Old men in dawn woods.
 

July 23, 2005. Lac Ouaureau, late night.
So there it is, #12, a nice little painting. And what more could you expect? At your age, when you can hardly manage sex more than once a week, you want a major painting statement like #11, July 2005, want it every day? Perhaps you could do that in the days when when you were having sex every day. Now, be glad for what you got—another sweet little wish for a new dawn, a new start… even early morning sex.

And, there’s just no room in the lower core of the painting to bury in the background an eternity sun. Can’t even get cosmic. Just this world… “Come sweet world…” (That’s not what Bach wrote.)

…well, there was room. But the sun
was not eternity, it was dawn.

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