What place is this? The sun hasn't shone here in at least a week. I'm not sure I know how to dress for work in the sunshine. I want to stay here all day and sew or knit or maybe even unearth my watercolors and splash paint around. Wouldn't that be fun? But instead I'll be showering and taking myself off to keep the world safe from scuba diving.
June 21--Georges Seurat, Monkey. "Do you think it's a monkey?" Geordie asked. "Don't be daft," said Sam, "it's a squirrel." "A squirrel? Are you crazy?" Geordie pointed up into the trees in the park. "When did you ever see a squirrel swinging by its tail? Only monkeys do that." Sam folded his arms across his thin chest. "Well, possums hang from branches by their tails, maybe it's a possum." "Possums are pale gray, almost white. That thing's black. It's a monkey." Geordie stood on the trail with his hands on his hips daring Sam to contradict him. "It's Wisconsin, Geordie, no monkeys live in Wisconsin except maybe in zoos. It's too cold here in the winter. They'd have to immigrate to where it's warmer like the birds do." They walked farther into the park as they argued, their eyes glued to the high branches of the trees watching for movement. "Migrate, you mean, birds migrate, people immigrate." Sam shrugged. "Migrate, immigrate, it doesn't matter. It's not a monkey," he insisted, just as a black monkey with a white face dropped out of a tree and came toward them on the path.
A-a-a-and the sun's gone behind the clouds already. Ah well.