This is not my photograph. This is not your photograph. This photograph was stolen from TW's blog, American Idyll, my favorite vacation spot and place to rest and sweat my mind. I have stolen it before but now that I am taking Alzheimer's meds, I will claim dementia... Hope I didn't write that out loud.
Oops.
Isn't it beautiful?
He'd say it's impossible to take a bad picture of this land. The tinting, the coloration is nice, but incidental.
Been thinking of you, TW. Please forgive me for stealing your photograph. Again.
Fly, fly like the wind, Dear Readers, and rest (and do some healthy sweating) over at TW's Place.
BUT DON'T STEAL HIS ART. That's a sister's privilege. (Maybe, we'll see... I'm pushing it...) I don't know what he calls what he does -- beyond, duh, "blogging" -- but it's a kind of calligraphy, collage. Sometimes it's zen and sometimes it's cacophony all in your face. This collage of multiple disciplines, I love. There is an awesome quote from Nicole Krauss' The History of Love and just the right music by which to gaze and read.
Sometimes I just stare.
He calls it "They could hear themselves." -- which, of course, is a function of Franz Kafka's dead ears.
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