A couple of dogs were here yesterday when I arrived, and they have stuck around.
I have been giving them food, so I can’t be too surprised that they have stayed. I had an old can of soft food stashed away on the upper shelf of the corner kitchen cabinet. It didn’t look too bad; they ate it. They’ve also gotten a few of the heart-shaped Newman’s-brand treats, which are basically doggie biscuits. And I’ve given them some kibble I had tucked away in a mouse-proof bucket back in the main bedroom here at Farm, dateline Traderight, MO.
I’ll give them what food I have, for as long as they are here, and then I’ll restock with some fresh food when I return. Whether the new inventory will be for these two on some later visit or for my own dog Hugo or for some other rando dogs that might appear somewhere down the road, who knows?
They slept out front last night. They growled and barked a few times. Somewhere around one or two in the morning they woke me with barking and I had to pee anyway so I went outside. Even before I stepped out the front door I could smell something dank and rich and garlicky, a very deep and funky body odor let loose into the wild. Skunk. There was no doubt about it. Like a bomb had been released...
I've been clearing out part of the shed. One of the bays. I think of it as a future café, or perhaps even a place to sleep. I'll show ya. I'm taking certain old items—tire, rim, an old heavy plow, pure iron, the weight—and moving them into a different shed. A junk shed.
Now I'm taking my drill out there to reinforce the structure a bit. This is my playground, my school, my office, my church.
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Mine was a young silence
Hers was an old knock on the door
We had a neon floor
The roof was made of islands
An old stink bug lay on the mantle
Innocuous as risotto,
A thank you note
Time-stamped in the mail
With three green birds
She welcomed me back
To where we were going
Next song, seven flowers
Best seat, eight whales
Why did I even care
About the risotto,
The order of things,
Whether the rice was al dente?
I'd love to get that angst back
I'd love to begin again in an empty dish
As if I could blow into my hand
To remove the nothing
That was already there
I was struck by the rightness of a Morandi still life, leading me to believe (again) I could paint something similar, or should try in any case. Are my old oils still any good? Am I better with either color or depth?
"There's a dead branch out there," she said, pointing out the window.
"You dissembler," he said, raising a knee and tapping it with the opposite hand. Then raising the other knee, tapping it with the other hand. "These are my new calisthenics," he said.
Full story here...