The art–like the writing–is sometimes on the wall (or the street)….

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Van Gogh on view at MoMA New York

Whenever I go to visit another part of the world–even another part of Canada or the U.S. (because we all know how different the regions can be)–I like to to do two very specific things.

First, I head to a grocery store.  A big one–not a mom-and-pop shop, although those can be fun too.

I’m looking to see what people buy on a regular basis, and what I might try as well. Or not.

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By the time we got to Woodstock….

pink yellow and green abstract painting
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Pexels.com

Four days and 49 years ago, a festival dropped in on upstate New York.

Depending on who tells the story, somewhere between 400 thousand and half a million people turned up to watch three days of music, get a little high (a little?!) and wallow in the mud in a summer that had seen, just a few weeks earlier, Chappaquiddick and then a man walk on the moon for the very first time. (Later that year—a year in which Richard Nixon was serving his first term as president, the New York Mets would win the World Series.  That’s the sort of crazy year it was…)

But what’s a hundred thousand when you’re all there for the same reason?

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Elegy to a furbag

She had perfect hair, and that’s saying something.  It was medium length, mostly medium brown, with highlights of grey-black and ginger and even some light…light that could have been blond or could have been white.  And, soft?  It had the most flawless texture—hard to imagine hair so soft.

Her eyes?  The most beautiful eyes, almond-shaped and a shade of green like the colour of emeralds that sparkled in the right light.  Her eyeliner, a think black rim around the top and the bottom, was perfection.

Her feet were tiny by anyone’s standards and her nails were most always clean, neat and dainty.

Until she dug them into your knee or the leather couch.

Continue reading “Elegy to a furbag”