mes amis—
life is nothing if not a series of strange coincidences, n’est pas? i write to you from a colony .. no not a penal one but an artistic one! macdonalds is the oldest artist colony—not to mention fast food chain—in the united states. or does that distinction go to the in and out burger? at any rate, one can feel the ghosts of past artisti! thornton wilder, i tip my hat to you. now get me a happy meal. gluten free bun. and step on it!
c’est delicieux!
anyhoo. imagine my surprise when no sooner had i dropped my bags in my “monday music” studio to discover the names of playwrights, poets and composers past. there on the “tomb stone” as they call it (always macabre at old micky d) was the name “C. Dale Young.” i shrieked and lept off the bed in both surprise and delight.
john hancocks of macdonald fellows
in my salad days i was on the staff of my college’s art and literature magazine. my matriculation to stylus was more a reflection of my hope to overtake the magazine than a genuine interest in art and letters. alas. i would succomb to stylus even attempting to make it good. after all, it was the only group of misfits who would have me. in my final year as editor-in-chief, i relished my authority even though i did none of the actual work. leave that for the grammarians. this kippy still don’t know her commas from her colonoscopies!
semi colon
anyhoo. one day there was some kind of lecture convening. i arrived rumpled and late. no surprise there. to my intrigue the speaker was not the typical BC fare but a handsome man of ambiguous ethnicity sporting a fine suit. he intoned instead of spoke. perhaps i misrecall him as pompous in my head. i cannot know. i just remember being enraptured. he informed his audience that he was a poet and a doctor. “I don’t know why people always act so surprised,” he declared. “I see poetry and medicine not as mutually exclusive tracks but subjects that work with each other.”
i leaned in. might i be able to do incongruous things with my life too? C. Dale Young was an accomplished man of medicine and of letters (he had recently published a poetry collection). might i one day do something, anything with my life? ooh the hope of youth! the lecture’s lasting impression on my impressionable brain creates a nice confluence of coincidence pour moi as I attempt to write my own poetics here at macdonalds. now, where’s that happy meal?
—
the day is a misty gray one and i am anxious to dig in. but what of it and how of it? how to dig when the weeks lay ahead, sprawled out like a lover on a bed? i don’t want to get everything done at once. nor do i want to stress myself out over the making of the art, bien sur! the yoga felt good this morning but can I keep this up? perhaps I should have brought my water colors…’twould have been a welcome distraction.
i suspect my moon boots will be getting a lot of good use.
the finest footwear
i do hope that the snow doesn’t all melt. i’d rather have a cold snap, long johns and all, and feel winter proper than be in the wilderness of global warming with mucky downtrodden fields. but these are just one colonist’s wishes.
a bientot,
kippy
Kippywinston's Weblog 