Casting our nets wider,
we gather matching minds and hearts
like small silver fish–
just a tiny bite, each one,
trying to fill a big appetite.
No big fish
to struggle to land.
one after another,
taking the edge off our hungers.
Pundits agree that during transition wit will be sharpened in the position of the oval office whereas farther South statements that issue from the orange guy’s mouth might lower the level of logical statements, bringing on overall massive abatements of logic and reason, of wit and good will formerly missing up there on the hill. We’re forming a queue to bid him good bye, as we trade him for a more logical guy who lacks his baloney and blustering ways. We’re headed, we hope, for happier days. And we wish for the happiest final conclusion: that his family joins him in his seclusion.
My wife is unfaithful. She’s out most every night with another famous man—out in open sight. She doesn’t want to hide it. She wants her friends to see that she’s at every swish affair, clad fashionably. Every Hermes bag and pair of winklepicker shoes has contributed its bit to my costume blues.
Countless Dior dresses and each Givenchy blouse added up to why we had to sell the house.
I’d taken out my equity and sold off all my stocks,
I locked her in her room, but she only picked the locks.
When I cancelled all her cards, she just applied for others,
and when I closed out all of those, she asked to use her mother’s.
I am a closet pauper. As you might suppose, challenged by my wife’s outlandish lust for clothes. If only her love affairs were with lesser men than Michael Kors or Givenchy, Dior or Ralph Lauren. If only she could lighten up and buy her clothes at Ross’s perhaps I could pay off my loans and modify my losses!
My day is winding down to its mellow end, trailing the burnt-off ash of its dissipated energy. Once-wild winds, trapped by the cooling night, curl into hollows, exhaling trails of mist through the trees, nourishing the night air with tomorrow’s dew.
The picture shows him looking out over Lake Lucerne. For once, no tension on his face, no furrows of concern. The snow up on the mountain top echoes his beard and hair, but no strategies of line or form are here for him to bear.
His nut-brown arms and hands at rest, touching no wood or clay, His eyes collecting images—each thrust of rock, each ray of light that dances on the lake. The murmured low of cattle. The fisherman out on the lake—their laughter and their prattle.
We’ve come to rest in this green land, tired of our travel, to calm the tension of the road and let our thoughts unravel. Flowers, lake and greenery, mountains, light and cloud help us to express our thoughts without speaking aloud.
For once he does not recreate what nature has created.
His need for shaping elements for this short time’s abated.
I know his thoughts as he knows mine, and so we are at peace. Our best communication sometimes happens when words cease.
It was 1986–a year after we’d met and some months before we married. We spent the summer touring Europe via car and by the time we reached Switzerland, the tension had mounted. It was hard-going traveling from country to country where we knew none of the languages. Bob felt insecure away from his usual realm. I felt pressured with having to read maps and make all the decisions while he simply had to aim the car and grew unsympathetic with my occasional misdirections. He didn’t like the food. The French didn’t like us, so moments after we crossed the border into France, we veered back into Switzerland and decided to spend the rest of our time before departure in Switzerland instead of France.
It was the right decision. Bob loved the wienerschnitzel and the calm view of the lake and mountains. I loved not having to make decisions. We rented the bottom level of a house for two weeks. It overlooked the lake and the mountainside where the owners of the house ran their cattle. A telescope in our living room was directed toward the cattle who were virtually unreachable by road. If the snow got too high in the winter, they airlifted bales of hay to them, dropping them from a helicopter. My earlier decision of a few weeks before, when I couldn’t wait to get home from Europe so I never had to see this guy again softened, and seven months later, we were married. Within a year, I, too, was an artist and we made our living for the next 14 years doing art together. In the 16 years I knew my husband, this time in Europe was the only time I knew him not to be creating, yet for an artist, even the art of living can be a creative experience as they draw images and other sensory details into the wellspring of their creativity.
I woke up after an afternoon nap to this amazing sunset. No color alteration has been done. These are the authentic colors of the sunset. I took three times this many shots, but couldn’t cull it down any further.