Favorite version of Everybody's Talkin', by the songwriter, Fred Neil...
a vagabond's sketchbook is 10 years old today. It's been a savior to me. A place to come to dissipate despair. And loneliness. A faithful sketchbook to grab up in my hands, scribble a vignette or two, then clutch to my chest for comfort, so to speak.
Thank you, Dear Reader, for visiting.
"Did you lose something"?
The man watched the robed imposing figure, down on all fours out in a field of flowers, gently rocking to and fro.
"I most certainly did", the large man chuckled.
"Wallet? Contacts"? He looked closer at the bearded man. "Mustard seeds, perhaps"?
"No. Just a bad batch of mushrooms".
"Oh. I see. Can I help you up"?
"I can manage, thank you. I am the Lord after all".
The man shook his head sadly. "Sounds like you still have those mushrooms coursing through your innards".
"You don't believe me. I am the Lord".
He held his arms out. "Show me".
"I knew it".
"You want me to wave my hand and, oh, make it snow purple violets maybe? I don't work that way".
"So you work off the ol magic mushrooms then"? He laughed.
"No. I only work off the power of faith".
"Well, I work off the power of whiskey". He raised his hand to his chin and thought for a moment as though trying to recall. "The Lord walks into a bar and says to the bartender"......
"STOP"! Thunder crackled angrily in the distance. A chilled wind came up and the man shivered. The large man stood up shakily and held out a palm to the man. "I've heard that one".
"And what did you learn in art class today, my dear".
"Well, it's....kind of hard to explain, yet simple". She was hesitant.
He looked over the top of the newspaper. "What"?
She cleared her throat. "It was how to express movement in painting, as in a windswept horizon".
"Oh". He was buried behind the sports section once more.
"You see", she continued, "the teacher is rather eccentric".
"They all seem to be", he mumbled.
"Do you want me to show you"?
"By all means", oozing sarcasm from behind the box scores.
"Like this". She stood noisily. He dropped the paper. She underscored with hand movements. "You tack a canvas to the wall. You put one brush in one hand, and grip a second tight in the other, and..". She pirouetted, arms outstretched, a sight to behold for a brief few seconds, losing her balance and taking out a table lamp. The cat sought high ground. "Like that", she said breathlessly. "You let the paint splatter, the streaks upon the blank white canvas denoting motion".
"Oh, that's just marvelous", he countered dully. He hurried to the Help Wanted page then, seeking nights, although he already was gainfully employed.
photo by Francesca Woodman
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