For this one free
hour, before getting locked in for the day, I’m hesitating on the edge of a
great swamp of things to do, choices to make. What will I do with my hour? Work on my novelito (a new form I have invented) and lose
myself in a Mallorcan September, play with a collage and wade into a color-pool
of purple pears and Matisse fabrics of dreams and old Italian stamps, read the
new Donna Leon about a forgotten Venetian composer, start one of the letters I
need to write, walk to work, sit outside with my coffee mug and listen, simply,
to the Golden-crowned Sparrow, giving in to the sweet-voiced birds luring me
off to idle in a patch of sunlight where a disused rowboat sits? Or maybe five minutes of
each?
I shall likely
hesitate too long, and do none of these things—the danger and nature of quagmires.
image: French Swamp, Nicolas Guionnet
this post could be a painting of bonnard's.
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