Another allowed how often what upsets Us so with someone else is the recognition of Ourself in them. My impatience, lack as a teacher, carrying too much hurt and jealous of those who have Another to share, All mine, these faults, wherever I see them. Mine, yes and yet, am I really the only one At fault here?
Another friend has called me an awful person. I have treated her badly and unkindly, been Hurtful and frightening. One, I may be able to dismiss but now two? I have to own it. And must remember I can Count the people Who care for me on less than one hand. Remember, Goad self: suck in, lay low, all are better. Should, Really, just leave.
I asked as a child, please G-d don’t let me live And die in the only one place as did my elegant aunt. And G-d didn’t. Later in life I swore never again would one dear to me Die without that last voice heard, touch felt should be mine. G-d granted that. Mine was the last voice, touch for you. I am glad. I will Live alone, die alone, untouched, unheard. Of G-d, I will Ask no more.
Six decades now I have walked this earth. Never did I think at this point to be dependent Solely on myself. Half a decade, now, I have had to assimilate This through my heart and soul. Yet, ends still Dangle hurtfully raw And I still find weighing choices alone Not pleasant, somewhat easier. Just still miss you doing it, too last week was fun, this one hard. Doing things For the shop, I have driven myself past strength To bone-tired weary. It is doing well. Now for myself on this day, Another choice, give the same attention Now for myself.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.
I will write in red, for my dear, love; who never saw red, not in ink, not in ire.
In 2010, the cold went beyond ten decades, was a century mark of hard winter through the mid-atlantic. For one small household banked by an Eastern Shore river this winter was epochal.
