Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
"We Three"
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Where the hell are my hiking boots, anyway?
It seems the less I have to do, the less I get done. No blogging lately, for sure. Backyard retains jungle status, thinking of hiring someone to do it. Soon. And tomorrow, the summer class starts, a landscape painting class at Pepperwood, local nature preserve on top of a mountain halfway to nowhere. Since it will begin at 8 AM four days a week for three weeks, I will be rousting my ass out of bed at crack of dawn, throwing trailmix and water bottle in the bag and heading out. Now, this sounded really fun. Then the syllabus arrived. Groan. Tomorrow is four hour lecture session, with slides. We will go over every syllable of the syllabus, even though most of us can probably read it ourselves. And some of us already have. I thought college was ever so much more esoteric than this. And even though we will not dip a single brush into pigment, we are expected to bring all our stuff to class, most likely for inspection. It boggles the mind, folks. Okay, never mind. It will all be loads of fun, once I get my easel paintbox opened, laid out my palette, and begin to work. That's what it's all about, brush to canvas, sweet breezes, hawks wheeling overhead. Not to mention rattlesnakes, ticks and poison oak. Oh, my!
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