One of my not-boyfriends just told me I'm not a good listener.
He could be right. I might not be a good listener.
It's hard to be a good listener when your mind reverberates like a room full of radios.
A Question of Perception
I was in the checkout line at a grocery store today and the man standing behind me said, "Hi. How is your day going?"
"Fine," I said. "How is your day going?"
"Horrible," he said. "I have to work tonight and I hate my job. It's the most boring job in the world."
"Sorry to hear it," I said.
"Do you know how boring my job is?" he said.
"No," I said.
"My job is as boring as watching paint dry," he said.
"I love my job," I said. "It's the most exciting thing in the world I can think of to do."
"What do you do for a job?" he said.
"I watch paint dry," I said.
Detail from Self-portrait with a Model
Everything is Moving Toward Osseo
Today was a good day for riding the bus. The sun was streaming in the windows like melted butter. Everyone on the bus was drenched in the stuff. We looked like a bunch of human-shaped pancakes.
The pancake across the aisle from me said. "What have you got in your bag?"
"Filberts," I said.
"Snacks?" the pancake said.
"No, paint brushes," I said. I pulled a Robert Simmons Signet 42 filbert from my bag and displayed it to her. "Robert Simmons is my favorite. I haven't had a lot of luck with Winsor Newton."
"I haven't had much luck with men either," the pancake said. "You're lucky to have this Robert."
Winter
Everybody's afraid of the approaching winter this year, even crusty old Minnesota types. Last winter was downright apocalyptic in its magnitude and duration. I personally hate winter but always try to find ways to make the best of it.
Self-portrait as Venus, Goddess of Love, 2007, oil on canvas, 30" x 40"
Ask Me if I'm a Tree
Q: Are you a tree?
A: No.
Ask Me if I'm a Tree, 2001, graphite on wood, 21-3/4" x 23-1/2"
The Meaning of Life
Last summer I was having one of those what's-the-meaning-of-life?-moments. (A delicious, moonbeam-drenched man was the catalyst for my mood.) I went for a walk alone, in a pretty neighborhood near my house. As I strolled down tree-shaded, quiet streets and ambled past clapboard houses and silent dogs, I heard distant voices and the clatter of crockery. People were having dinner on their screened-in porches.
Suddenly a cat sidled up to me.
"Hello," I said to the cat. I crouched down and looked it in the eyes. "Could you please tell me the meaning of life?"
The cat said nothing, but a voice wafted from a nearby porch. "Stanley eats a pound of vegetables every day."
And that, apparently, is the meaning of life, my friend.
Photo by Nancy Robinson