"I shall live bad if I do not write, and I shall write bad if I do not live." ~ Françoise Sagan
And to this end, Mr. Lee has dedicated himself to see that I LIVE. Fuck him. Tomorrow he is dragging me out into the Great Basin for an off road, off the grid, out in the true heart of fucking Nowhere for yet another wilderness experience. I am sneak writing this. Mr. Lee has his eye on me because, at this point, TIME HAS RUN OUT. I should be packing but I am barely packed however I am charging my two camera batteries and have amassed a pile of pens, pencils, erasers, notebooks, and sketch pads to comfort me out there. We go to very remote places. In one favorite location, a military plane crashed and wasn't found for 50 years. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?
For the last few days I have been scaling down the amount of food I shovel out into the Bird Park so that it won't be a total shock when the food dries up but, even as I write this, my old friend Minerva, and her similarity decrepit buddy, have showed up for a mid-morning peanut. I am sorry to say that the crows are winning the contest of who trains who. The other day Minerva landed and clomped (crows don't hop, they clomp) straight to my bedroom window (she not only knows where my office is, she knows where I sleep!) and demanded a treat. Unchecked, this will not end well. Crows have a hot-line. I fear that, before long, hundreds, perhaps thousands, will take up cawing at my window. I suppose it is better we go to the desert a while. Let things cool off.
And when we get back, if we do, it's off to Portland to see Baby Thea (a good thing), then LA (a just okay thing), Tonapah (an okay thing) and, on October 1, we leave for Costa Rica. Yikes and ey yi yi! It feels like a yawning chasm has opened up beneath me into which I plummet.
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