The paths are littered with pine cones: trees trying to have kids. On Saturday, Avram and I spotted two different foxes by the side of the road as we drove home from David and Clay’s house; the one tucked on the hill; the one with the luscious lap pool; the one with the mid century modern furniture, knoll and miller; the one with the black velvet painting of Hulk Hogan that Clay got while he was being given poor hospital treatment for Lyme disease at Northern Duchess; the one where Phil M. and I got into a heated debate over the number of images on a viewmaster reel, and how they worked; the one where I began to realize that folks do still kinda smoke pot; the one where all the varied greens in the salad came from the garden.
On Sunday the third year student show opened. I got there with Amy S, who is a grown up funny playful ravishing painter, Mike S. who is the Oscar Levant of performance art, and Caroline, a dashing lesbian poet who I’m just getting to know. At breakfast we had discussed christians and their consequences, what type of mush we like to eat, and students who had scammed us. At the show all was eager and tidy. Some times something that looked like art was presented. I apologized to someone for missing a commitment that started last summer and fell by the wayside. Polly didn’t show up. And I smoked.
I’m told that these days I resemble Poseidon. or Moses. So perched between the pan- and mono-theistic I lurch on, my heart slightly warmer, the rest of me dubious.