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RE: Monday Oils, and Video of Me Packing Heat
Some of your titles make me laugh. I like the What a dog smells...I beter don't ask mine, although we might smell the same just interpret it in a different way.
Interesting you hang your paintings to dry. I just put them on the floor.
As I can see in the video you have a lot of "administration" to catch up with.
Enjoy the Spring, my time is mostly outside, the grass (and weeds) grow faster than I can mow. No time for hands into the dirt except if it comes to digging a grave (still on the to-do-list).
🍀❤️
P.s. is it more fun to paint big or small?
Ha, ha! You might consider a Tibetan sky burial. Saves on labor:)
My cat sleeps with me, so I guess my scent does not offend too much.
I also put my paintings on a table or the floor. For the floor, I fear the rains and our sump pump’s longevity. The tables are covered with drying oils, so I hang some clothesline.
I have much to do, and it’s daunting. So I do nothing but stand there, or go make more art that I have no room for. I think I should follow your lead and tend to the garden. I did manage to turn some soil and plant spinach, radishes and arugula.
An aerial burial is an interesting idea, but I think I’d run into problems with that, although I suspect the farmers and shepherds simply toss the dead sheep aside and leave them there; the dachshund regularly turns up with a piece of sheep. It’s difficult to burn, by the way.
I couldn’t get the oldest dog into the ground. It turned into a very shallow pit, so he’s buried half above ground, like in a dolmen. In any case, the body has been left in peace. I think I’ll do the same with the dog who’s now the oldest – using stones and roof tiles I no longer need. If it’s a matter of being eaten away and letting nature take its course, that will happen anyway.
Oh that’s a higher level of after-death coping. I’m skittish with the dead. And I guess a bad idea for you, with the local dogs and all, who’d be fighting over your fingers and toes. I still intend on dying right. I’ve mentioned it before, but if I’m still as brave on November 27, 2054, as I pretend to be now, I’m going into the woods with my father’s 120 proof bourbon, building a fire, drinking until I pass out, and never waking. It’s just got to get cold enough that night for the hypothermia. Then the coyotes can have my toes!