It is as if the rain has washed all my color away, along with my bird companions.
In compensation I envision my gypsy tea caravan instead a gypsy art caravan, traveling among the needy, bringing a desperately lacking dose of Bonnard and Mozart, seedy raspberry jam, the fragrance of just-baked bread, the presence of an otterhound (my new dog daydream), comfy slippers, sensual treats, joie de vivre. Just like the old-time peddlers used to bring around all of the things a household needed, and bookmobiles bring literary wealth to remote areas, I'll be a traveler in spiritual provisions, drive a joy jalopy down the dull back roads where bright moments are in short supply.
Or maybe just the art—the intoxicating colors of Bonnard and Gauguin, Dufy and Macke, Matisse and so many others, and tubes of pigments, coffee cans of brushes, great rolls of paper to unfurl, so people can come up with their own spontaneous combinations, like build-it-yourself ice-cream sundaes, or a taco bar. Some days need a large scoop of teal or turquoise, a little garnish of crimson lake, a second helping of burnt sienna, a serving of Egyptian blue on the side.
image: Raoul Dufy, Interior with Open Window