Is the Picture Big Enough?

Life poses many choices. I gotta pick something every now and again. Hopefully, the choice I make is the best one for the moment.

But, how am I ever to know? I cannot live in parallel universes or at least I do not think I can. Is multi-tasking a form of operating in parallel universes? Now, I am listening to music, writing this blog entry, drinking water, eating tamari-roasted almonds and trying to take care of my aching back.

A friend once impressed upon me that since I was alone and the world lay before me, I should take advantage of every second of every day. I don't know exactly how he saw me doing that. But he drinks a helluva lot of coffee and I don't, so maybe his perceptions are generally speedy.

Since the time my friend freely gave me that advice, my emotional, spiritual and expressive lives, which are integrated more closely now than ever before, have guided me through my choices. The sky may be the limit, but choosing within that limit is the challenge. Imagining the limit is the challenge. Adapting to readily identifiable givens seems to be the first step to establishing "the limit."

By "limit," I mean answering the question who am I? within my art. How clearly can I describe what I have chosen to describe. At some junctures, my writing and my art have been so baroque that determining what is going on has been extraordinarily difficult. The endless verbosity has flowed like a river; if spoken, the words translated as meaningless stream of consciousness. Oddly enough, in the art of creative writing, that is called "generative prose." Buried within that generative prose was the writer's voice. It is still taking shape. In the art, I started out over thirty years ago with a vision that is pure, but in order to secure that vision, the work had to become so impetuous and impulsive that it was a relief to find some inkling of the source for the purity. Buried within the mess of marks and uncharacteristic imagery was a clear, unadulterated visual statement. It took forever to re-establish it.

The art and the writing have strangely developed a voice that was always there. I just had to shape it, hone it, and keep manifesting the principles I always believed in. Aye, those principles were the crux. Sustaining them meant that I was building the skeleton. I simply had to make it stronger and the bones constituting it had to be as dense as possible.

Improvised music sometimes may sound like no musician knows where he or she is going. William Parker once said, and certainly his statement is shared by all improvisers, that an improviser has to have chops. Just like the athlete has to have muscles. It is only then that the musician can succeed in going where he knows he must go. Chops allow freedom. Expressiveness becomes a matter of course, something you can do and do well. Responsiveness to oneself or to someone else is automatic. No labor involved.

Art and writing can be as temporal as music given intentions of the artist. But the refinement and the editing, respectively, can take more time...before the picture is framed or the writing is copyrighted, published or simply finished as an example of one of those satisfying creative efforts.

So as the motion from one creative act to another may involve more than one state of consciousness to reach a destination, I am still traveling towards the original celestial limit. My mind is like a chemical multi-directional conveyor belt. The limit will never be reached, because I have no idea where it is. All I can do is relish the trip and not postpone the joy. Wherever that is, however that can be achieved. And joy is the impetus behind the choices. I have to remember to enrich the major choices with the details that can accompany them. I can wear a white shirt, a black jacket and jeans, but what do I wear underneath? Lace or cotton underwear? And how about jewelry? And mascara and lipstick? I mean how far do I go to accessorize? Will I still be recognized?

copyright 2010 Lyn Horton

photo: partial view of "Still Life with Curves" #13, copyright 1974-2010 Lyn Horton

Savoring, Republished from 2010

Too often, one can plow through life believing, or not even believing, rather mindlessly thinking that being here, alive on earth, is a matter of fact, not for appreciation or awareness thereof.

That I have titled this blog The Paradigm for Beauty means that I want to write about the experiences that I appreciate in my life. I am also interested in the consciousness required to witness experience and see, hear, touch, smell and feel it.

Just because I write about creative improvised music and make visual art does not preclude the fact that my capacity for enjoying birdsongs is non-existent.

I think that being female contributes a lot to how I think and how I use my senses to invest experience with significance. That the birdbath on my terrace can be viewed from my dining room table offers the opportunity for participating in a natural world, albeit a limited one, one without jaguars and lions, whales, and seals.

In silence, sound is abundant. All winter long, when the windows are shut, the nature of the sound has everything to do with the interior and logically the internal. When winter approaches, I am ready for it. I am ready to focus on my internal spaces. I am ready to batten down the hatches, seal up the cave and seemingly hibernate: infrared photography would reveal this bundle of energy roaming the house, pausing for a while, then roaming again. What the photo would not show is the way my mind is operating, developing ideas for my art, listening to music for the purpose of writing about it. Once it is March, I yawn with anticipation of the changing light, of throwing the windows open and letting the exterior invade the interior.

The spring calls me outside. The smells of the earth beckon me to sink my fingers into the dirt to care for my garden. I want to feel the breezes and the rain on my face. I want to fall asleep without laying a heating pad on my chest. That time eventually comes every year. The temperature of the inside of the house equalizes with the temperature of the outside so I do not have to raise and shut the windows all the time, having become an anthropomorphic thermostat. And when the windows are open, so my longing to be one with the universe pervades my psyche. It is the sounds that take me to that cosmic plane. It is the revivification of the colors that re-sensitize my notions of change. I become healthier because my body is taking in the energy that is more evident, more noticeable than it seems to be in winter, although I know that is not true.

Change is continuous. One tends to compartmentalize instead of embracing the whole. It is the whole that is changing; we are part of the whole. Knowing that we are simply contributors to the change of the whole is a matter of consciousness. We are not controlling it; we are filters. Like every other living entity. Filters for experience.

Too often, we are caught in the web of our imagined function. We are led by our own ideas of who we are, instead of recognizing that the energy we expend physically is irretrievable and we are decaying with every breath we take. However, our spirit is enriching itself, the longer we live, the more we breathe, the more we listen, smell, touch, taste and look. We are blessed and we have to remind ourselves how, every second of every waking moment.

copyright 2010 Lyn Horton

Strict Beauty: Sol LeWitt Prints Out His Vision

Viewers must be visually cautious in approaching the art, no matter in what form, of Sol LeWitt as if it were for the first time, without preconceptions. The breadth of his work seemingly has no bounds. The work gives the impression of being restrained and constricted by rules yet the human element penetrates it with grace, boldness and tenderness. LeWitt knew this. The necessary parameters are always stated and evident but he created them with potentially unexpected results in mind. His story is told by drawn lines; strong, steady or wavering brushstrokes; and by the choices he made determining geometric design strategies in series of multiples, (even as pertains to his three-dimensional work).

From the very beginning, LeWitt was fashioning his hand to make delicate and expressive strokes as demonstrated in the first lithographs and etchings dating from as early as 1948. Correlating the similarities between the first few prints in the exhibition and those that become identified with his signature language points to his awareness of the surface area on which an image would rest.

One of LeWitt’s many purposes was to map the surface in shaping any of his two-dimensional work. Throughout his history, he laid out the ways in which he would do that. In every level of engagement though, he allowed himself ways to move further. His vocabulary grew. His language evolved multi-directionally. Lines were the predominate informants. The lines started to form shapes; the shapes became filled with color. The number of choices he could make grew, as he developed layers and layers of givens which he could move around any way he wanted to without sacrificing the consistency of imagery. Printmaking no doubt gave him a range of subtleties that were unachievable in original work because he could move entire images that lived on plates and reincorporate them into the print which he was making or repeat images without the direct introduction of his hand.

The magnificent array of prints in Strict Beauty demonstrates a means with which LeWitt could magnify the richness of possibilities within a surface of paper. Because he was his own kind of perfectionist, nearly all of the prints appear as though they are original drawings. That is one reason that they are stunning, arresting and embracing, defying all attachment to a mechanized method of production.

LeWitt’s specific types of imagery appear and reappear but from different perspectives, with different nuances, in different colors, with different kinds of lines. Isometric geometry often forms the skeleton for the application of color or line or both.

Fine lines become opaque brushstrokes, elegantly sweeping across the page over and over again in a sensical way, e.g. Parallel Curves, Wavy Lines, or in freeform combination of strokes, i.e. loops and curves, the fun-filled Loopy-Doopy; or move vertically in simple downward and upward strokes, overlapping, mixing with each other transparently in a gauzy curtain with an imaginary breeze wafting through.

The expansion of surface takes place also with his use of color, persistently primary and secondary and combinations thereof, sometimes so muted it almost disappears and is visible only in contrast to another color or to black, and sometimes so brash and loud that the viewer can only approach the piece from a certain distance in order to absorb it, i.e. The Lincoln Center Print, 1998.

Whirls and Twirls, Color, and Black, 2005, were made two years before LeWitt passed away. They are a magnificent journey of primary color, geometry and free flowing guided lines all contained within one fundamentally curvilinear shape. These pieces were double-hung as the conclusion of the exhibit. They express the unceasing dynamic that energizes LeWitt’s work.

Art grows from innumerable sources. Those sources are instilled in an active artist’s creative being and stem from life experience, education, consciousness and basic knowhow. The results of an artist’s process are seldom as definably pristine as the way in which LeWitt’s unfolds. But indefatigable analysis from outside of an artist’s work that apparently invites it squeezes out any chance of its being appreciated for its essence which is to be beautiful, thoroughly beautiful.

Illustrations from top to bottom: Untitled (Female Nude), 1950, lithograph, sheet size 15 7/8" x 11 9/16"; detail from a set of six Line Etchings, etching, color etching and aquatint, 2000, each sheet size 16"x 16"; Straight Brushstrokes in Five Colors in All Directions, 1996, color aquatint, sheet size 29" x 29"; Six Brushstrokes in Different Colors in Two Directions, 1993, color sugar lift aquatint, each sheet and image size 47" x 29 3/8"; Lincoln Center Print, 1998, screenprint, sheet size 38" x 30 1/4"; Whirls and Twirls, Color and Black, 2005, color linocut, each sheet size 25" x 55."

(This article was written after seeing Strict Beauty: Sol LeWitt Prints, curated by David Areford, PhD, at the Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, MA. The exhibit was installed first at the New Britain Museum of American Art, New Britain, CT, where LeWitt’s work was first exhibited in 1949.)

As Seen on Arteidolia: Swifts & Slows, Lyn Horton & Power Boothe

s w i f t s  &  s l o w s: a quarterly of crisscrossings

Line by Line

Lyn Horton & Power Boothe

None of us can remember seeing our hands and feet for the first time. We began to unfold the layers of knowing, differentiating this from that. Extending our hands and feet had a purpose. The initial steps to communicating. Our interaction with the world became too complicated to let communication remain as single hand outlines painted on pitted dark cave walls. Language needed some kind of organizing principle in order to mean anything. Left to right. Right to left. Up and down. Down and up. Across. How to assemble symbols to declare, to instruct, to explain, to question, to exclaim, to simply say.

Somewhere in that evolution the grid appeared. Some say it is the way our brain is arranged. How to extend order to our internal and external cognitive environments. 

Originally these grids were only dots and called “Ellipsis” as in dot dot dot. Dots then became lines. “Ellipsis” stayed. “Ellipsis” pointed to: More planes to denote. More spatial relationships to create.

On undetectably torn pieces of paper, the ruled drawn lines have some kind of tooth to grip. A wash or carefully brushed line can glide without falling into any textural dimples. The faint, nearly illegible grids are fences along which imagistic decisions depend. Questions arise about when to keep the small one-foot square surfaces cool or when to heat them up. When to scrape off the color or when to add it. Individual lines dominate or recede. They always coincide with the lines of the grid. They span the lengths of grid lines from one intersection to the next. They are whole. They exist on the sharp edge of the inch and a half wide razor blade that makes them with a twirl or a swipe. The lines are nurtured as the babes they are. And somehow disciplined and recalled.

The way the wind blows, the lines go.
Like leaves, like snowflakes carried by air currents, the lines land.
The scatter of the lines is totally methodical. Without method. The lines retreat from sequence. They occur intermittently, persistently and have equal importance. The lines are sought after without a chase.

We can run, skip, walk, ride, float or glide through the linear forest of colors, of blue and black and red and purple and yellow, and play hide and seek or tag, go anywhere we want to go. To pursue our dreams of fulfillment. To delight in the surprises of discovery. To be invited. Not pushed into the space where sheets of golden iridescence or opaque opalescence transcend their obvious limits. We can only know how we feel here. Because there is nothing to know. There is only what we can experience. Unexpectedly. Mysteriously attracted, we might never want to leave.

We are both artist and viewer in the viewing. The artist envelops our wonder and our intuition with his own. We stay alive in the company of his animated imagined community.

The artist uses his brain to extend his visions so that they can be noticed, studied, or rarely ignored.

Power Boothe’s work courtesy of Fred Giampietro Gallery

Dedicated to My Mother

It was Easter Sunday.

No family around to celebrate

The rising of Christ from the dead.

No eggs planted anywhere.

My breakfast French toast was dipped in eggs though,

Drenched in syrup, where berries and cinnamon also floated.

The dishes were washed.

The reading of the news was done.

I was sufficiently terrorized,

Thrust into hopelessness and gloom.

Some say we will survive.

Others say nay.

I have no reason to believe in anything but myself.

So much trauma in my own life caused by those

Who were meant to love me unconditionally.

As parents, as lovers, as friends, as a husband.

I was alone.

And intent on finding another place

To merge with the natural world.

Down the state highway going south

Is the entrance to a road that parallels

The river I visit on Sundays.

I have never been down this road.

It was a good day to give it a try.

Discovering this path by the river

For the first time on foot, I was eager

To see where it took me.

I parked where a closed gate blocked going any further by car.

I parked beside a truck bearing New Hampshire license plates.

A sign on the gate said FLOOD.

I walked past the gate.

The road descended gradually.

The river was on the left of the road.

The river was full and rollicking over rocks.

Eventually, the rushing river disappeared from view

And changed into a stream.

I passed two couples and one dog from New Hampshire,

Going in the other direction.

I wished them Happy Easter.

I passed a crevice on my right side, the side of the main road above,

Carved out by a temporary charge of water in the past rainstorms.

Grasses lay across the road in the direction in which the water had taken them.

The stream flowed into a flood plain.

When I reached the open flood plain,

My body was seized with an anxiety

I have not felt since I was a toddler.

I stopped walking.

I stood looking out

Over acres and acres of  three foot long grasses

Laid flat by water.

In the distance was a short cement bridge.

Do I walk that far? I said to myself.

It was not raining.

My steps carried me several hundred yards

To the bridge.

The bridge passed over the stream that was the river.

I was standing in a flood plain bordered by a dam wall.

I turned around 360 degrees.

No birds were singing.

Nor could I see any flying.

No sound.

Not even from the flow of the water.

I could not detect the breeze.

The water had receded from its flood stages.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been standing there.

On the bridge.

This is how the end of the world is going to look,

I thought.

The clouded gray sky foretelling of more rain

Provided a cyclorama against which the silhouettes of the trees

Atop the hills, which cupped the valley, grew.

I took pictures.

I sought out where the road would lead

If I were to continue walking.

The road disappeared around a hill.

Because I had hurt my knee,

And I would have worsened how hurt it was,

I decided against continuing.

Besides, the drops of a drizzle began

To hit my cheeks.

I turned and started to retrace my steps

Back to the entrance

Where my car was parked.

Experiencing this place measured an inkling

Of acceptance of imminent death.

My death.

The death of the earth.

The death of all.

The irrevocable final transformation of all.

In five billion years,

The sun explodes.

I have known that the sun will explode

For my entire adult life.

I saw moments before the end time

In that flood plain. On Easter Sunday.

Scientists say that the sun will explode in five billion years

From the time they declared it.

From now.

Less, of course, the number of years I will have lived.

Copyright 2019 Lyn Horton

As Seen on ARTEIDOLIA: Peter Pincus's Finesse

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Peter Pincus’s

Finesse

Lyn Horton
January 2019

               Peter Pincus, Ewer, 2018.

Artists live in a tight world of history and influence. The medium an artist uses often points to possible penchants for attractive pods of that network. How an artist assimilates those areas of interest is complicated and eventually translates into what the artist ends up doing in both apparent and undetectable ways.

Peter Pincus is a contemporary ceramic artist. He has in his own practice evolved a means to unite history and influence to create his signature vision. Although he speaks of ceramics as being “too material specific to be classified as fine art,” he has produced an array of objects that walk a fine line of defying that statement.

As a teacher, husband and father, he and his wife have bonded to establish a vibrant working environment. Their studio is organized and stocked plentifully with materials exemplified by shelf after shelf after shelf of color-infused liquid slip clay. Twenty hours of studio time per week unfolds not only the fabrication of utilitarian objects that helps to fund their livelihood, but also the unique inimitable pieces that constitute Pincus’s oeuvre.

Pincus is an intense, dedicated master of his craft. His work speaks a restrained yet exuberant enthusiasm for those visual artists and ceramicists who have come before him. This article hinges upon an exhibit, at Ferrin Contemporary in North Adams, MA, entitled “Peter Pincus: Channeling Josiah Wedgwood.”

An English potter of the 18th century, Josiah Wedgwood impressed Pincus in more ways than the obvious. Bringing to light Wedgwood’s integrity in regards to how pottery was manufactured intertwined with the dissemination of his views on social justice and labor practice, Pincus distinguishes Wedgwood’s scientific methods as “obsessively” studying materials and their characteristics and “feverishly” creating “bodies of work in a way that was unparalleled in the history of ceramics.” The invention of Jasper, a white unglazed porcelain often colored with metallic oxides, “… altered the way the world viewed porcelain and white ware …” (Pale blue jasperware denotes Wedgwood’s brand of ceramics.) Pincus also believes that pieces coming out of Wedgwood’s factory at Etruria, Italy, are “perhaps the finest work (he) has ever seen. Excellent proportions, gorgeous forms, subtle transitions. It is sculpture about pottery, created before sculpture about pottery was a thing.”

Peter Pincus, Kalyx Crater, 2018.

Pincus has adopted and pushed through the most interesting aspects of Wedgwood’s work for his own purposes. He exaggerates, bloats or elongates the predominant curvilinear forms, the details of the handles, the shapes of feet that support the vases and the lips and the spouts of vessels. “There is an endless potential to develop more succinct form. The more I make,” he says, “the more sensitive I become to proportion, scale, and relationship.”

Distinct to Pincus’s interpretation of visual art is the multiplicity of geometric designs superimposed on the surfaces of his pieces.

The interaction of multicolored and/or monotone stripes and parallel-line or triangular shapes that appear on the silky-smooth skins of the ceramic works are created from colored porcelain veneers layered laboriously into the mold. The last layer of material which completes the final three-dimensional form is poured into the prepared plaster mold. The resulting chemistry that occurs in the process of slip clay casting through the multiple firings of the pieces in the molds produces the end product, which itself is washed and treated to its peak condition

Peter Pincus, Vase with Handles, 2018.

How materials interact, merge and blossom is crucial to the impact of Pincus’s ceramic art and to how the forms are read: from the top, the side, the other side, or around. These forms are exquisitely detailed and finished. They are not necessarily confined to expressing their utility. He plugs vessels with a gold finish so that the “dead”-ness of their interior disappears: “…closing the form is a fantastic way to add significant structural integrity.” But closing the form also allays the question of function, and directs the context of the object to its inherent sculptural beauty.

The work of Peter Pincus is more than a hybridization of historical and visual forms: it represents the impending dawns of conceptual realization from the shaping, sanding and construction of the plaster molds, down to the infinitesimal distance between the chosen porcelain veneer color arrangement coating the inside of a mold and the slip clay to which it adheres. Within that distance lies the metaphorical spark that births the art.

His work crosses the bridge from “pottery” to “art” in the same way he has described that the work of Wedgwood did, only three centuries later, when art survives in an isolated slice of culture that is paradoxically perpetually prevalent.

Installation view, Peter Pincus: Channeling Josiah Wedgwood, Ferrin Contemporary, North Adams, MA, Fall, 2018.

 

As Seen On ARTEIDOLIA: Swifts & Slows: Four Markers: Lyn Horton and Frand Ward

http://www.arteidolia.com/lyn-horton-frank-ward/

As Seen On ARTEIDOLIA: Power Boothe's Instinct

http://www.arteidolia.com/power-boothe-instinct-lyn-horton/

The Dance

Learning new image languages

Is the same as inventing new words.

How do we know their derivations?

We view them in the context of history.

Does the history matter?

When the ‘present time’ is so trendy?

History looms large in consciousness.

Yet what happens right in front of our eyes

Can be held in disbelief and ignored

Or understood through study.

To study can be instinctual.

Rather than built into the rapidity of button pushing.

The digital age has always existed.

Instruments implementing the parts are different yet correlated.

So why can’t we study and understand?

As opposed to scan, send and share?

We can tap the larger, denser, more information picture.

We can learn about derivations and history.

The potential of discovery underneath the keyboard is vast.

To take advantage of it is even admirable.

Sometimes taking things apart and putting them back together in unpredictable ways

Allows for unexpected perceptions and learning.

How could we forget?

What did we learn in school?

Did we pay attention?

Did we take hold of the process of the discipline of learning?

Or did we just memorize to pass?

In Time:

The derivations are built in.

The present tense is built in.

The understanding is built in.

The kind of truth that we want to know

Is ready to be revealed.

Waiting and wondering when it will be apparent

Are wasteful.

Truth surprises us.

It is real.

It is without question.

It surrounds us.

It guarantees our safety within ourselves.

Truth is the nirvana state.

It either is or it isn’t.

It does not exist.

It happens.

Who we are becomes a stack of truths.

No one can tear the stack apart.

We breathe, we walk, we see, we feel.

We do all that.

Each aspect of being alive supplies a torrent of information that integrates itself into our being.

Being aware of that integration is a gift to ourselves.

A means of taking steps outside of a comfort zone, outside of a norm, a habit, a routine.

Later on, we do no walking, breathing, seeing, feeling.

The information input dies.

The relics proving our lives happened remain.

In a box, on a computer, in the dump.

Somewhere on earth.

Copyright 2018 Lyn Horton

The Art Salon Presentation

These images and words were delivered at a meeting of The Art Salon in Cummington, MA on September 21, 2018.

As you listen to the words, scroll down to see the images. 

The images represent one for each of the last 20 years.

Time Trial

copyright 2015 Lyn Horton

A live Tanglewood performance is on the radio.

It was my intention to be outside, sitting in the chair by the table on the terrace while the music was on. I have pictured myself there all summer.

The minute I went out to do this, my neighbor started up his mower. He is probably 40, divorced and has a penchant for machines, which has been transferred to his son, who, at 8 am this morning, revved up his ATV to travel around his yard for a while. That stopped quickly much to my surprise. It was difficult to meditate with noise pollution, which accompanies living across the street from that neighbor and the other ones, too.

In my email Inbox, every morning is a "feel good" newsletter. Most of the time, the subject matter is timely. Today, it had to do with doing something that pleases me.

So, the aforementioned placement of myself popped into my mind.

I tailored my day to make it happen.

At 6 am, the cat came into the bedroom asking to be fed. Which I did do. Afterward, I got back in bed, wanting to remain there for three more hours. I couldn't lie there. The covers made me too hot or too cold. I took them off and put them back on. I got up at 8. That is early for Sunday.

Depression seeps into my day slowly as I fix breakfast of French toast and coffee. I read my email while eating, most of which is all news or pleas for money from progressive, environmental, or political groups. I delete the political email and read the news from the New York Times. Gradually my mood becomes darker as I scan the headlines. Incessant spirit deprivation. Incessant triggers of hopelessness.

By the end of breakfast, a full pot of coffee later, and maple syrup poured lavishly on my French toast, I could be on a high. Yet, I find myself with my head down, tears rolling down my cheeks, debilitated. My anger kicks into gear, sadness follows. No thoughts about how incredibly fortunate I am come to mind. Instead, I worry. How am I going to leave this funk?

Today I thought about the subject of the newsletter though. And grabbed the dishes off the dining room table to take to the kitchen to wash.

And then I decided to clean up the terrace by weeding and raking. This activity carried over into the area under the trees where there is nothing but stone. Branches and leaves were strewn around, a result of the heavy rain breaking the dead wood off the maples. I dragged an old sheet full of everything I had raked across the lawn to the edge of the wildly overgrown field and flapped the sheet free of its contents.

It was simply too hot to run today. I decided to do three miles on the stationary bike instead. This took place by 2. I did my post-exercise yoga routine, drank coconut water and ate some salted roasted cashews.

Oh, my God, I had almost arrived at my outdoor destination.

But, no, I had to distract myself and hang an eight-foot-long piece of art that had been resting on the floor in a spare room for months. This won't take long. I took accurate measurements and marked the wall for the placement of the hangers. The hangers did not support the piece when I started to lift the piece onto the wall and it fell to the floor. The drop was short, but the impact dislodged the art from its hinges within the frame. Another thing to fix.

I ignored it, put away the tools and left the room.

Maybe I can use screws instead of hangers. So I did. The piece is on the wall, straight, but the art is sagging from the hinges being jarred and there are a few extra holes in the wall that are covered by the piece.

I left the room again, half successful at what I had accomplished. But embarrassed that the thing had dropped off the wall in the first place. It is a two-person job.

The laptop was downstairs ready to be turned on so I could write.

Pleasure. Self-fulfilment.
How many times do I have to aspire to either. Or even be reminded that both can be achieved internally.

I am tired.

The neighbor's lawnmower ruined my moment.
It was running for ten minutes only. By that time, I had set up the computer on the dining room table.

The concert from Tanglewood is continuing. It will be over in twelve minutes.

Will I be finished?
I smell the odor of fresh cut grass, yet feel the wafts of heat carried by the ever so slight breeze coming through the screen door that opens out to the terrace.

No, I will not be finished.
With this article, perhaps.
With other stuff. No.

It is hot.
I am going to take a shower.

The point is that I am not counting the results of my intended purpose.
This is the result. This.
These last words.



copyright 2018 Lyn Horton