July 9, 2014

Since Lincoln in New York I have cherished a red wooden bead bracelet that a Tibetan monk (I thought) gave me on 45th Street. He made it look like a gift, but I gave him money, and the he showed me a notebook in which was recorded other people who had given him money. I thought he did so to indicate that my gift compared favorably with theirs.  But in the NY Times I read that it was a scam, that it happens all the time and my monk was no more a holy man than I. Less, now that I think of it. I invested a certain amount of imagination into that exchange. It seemed sweet and portentous to me. Now I just feel foolish. Is there no end to this? I am probably the most scam-able person on earth.

What else do I learn about myself? That I have a thing for the orange-y roses.

I paint so early in the morning, and so much else intervenes, that when I tally up the deeds of the day I almost forget the session at the studio, then remember it with a smile, thinking “that, at least, is accomplished.”

A dab of rain, finally. The tiger lilies are in bloom.