I love my cabin and my writing table, my bright lunch pail, the mudded path. Then drinks begin, say, five-ish—Stoli or Red Label— and keep on till we’ve worked out all the kinks in our disheveled psyches. Back at home, it’s hard how people don’t know I’m an artist. I feel as useless as a garden gnome. They think I’m ordinary: that’s the hardest! Here, they understand the mess that’s me, and everything…… More »
Tough to say from this tableful of scraps what couples feasted here—gnawed olive stones among the burnt ends of cold meat, the laps of cantaloupes splayed open, spindly bones of game birds, unloaved crusts, a waxy rind. Did late-harvest wine unloose their wild talk? Whose restless eyes, at once far-off and kind, looked skyward on an after-dinner walk? The clues are hard to tease out: were they fair or compromised, temperate or gluttonous; did some…… More »
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