The position of an artist is humble. He is essentially a channel. Piet Mondrian
So what to say about the third meeting of the Swamp Yankee Writer's Society? Well first it has the distinction of being the first one held in the great commonwealth of Massachusetts, Southwick to be precise. And to be hosted on a farm as well. Simply put farms are awesome. Maybe not to live and work on all your years, but certainly to visit. I will not attempt to convey everything that makes the Roberts' homestead so awesome because like the Learned Astronomer it would take away some of its mystery.
This was also the first meeting without founder Matt Harris, who was off visiting kin in North Cackalacka. In a nod to the brevity of his inaugural minutes I will give thumbnail sketch of the meetings proceedings:
Austin's workshop. Where humidors and edged weapons are crafted.
Introductions to clan Austin. The newest member being baby August. Don't let the name fool you he was born in September.
Meeting convened on patio poolside. Writing attempted but too many strange and curious sights to show guest such as a pistol and saber that charged San Juan Hill along with a Kreg rifle.
A farm house that dates back to the 1800s with floorboards that bow when you walked on them.
A corn field guarded by an electric fence powerful enough to make a black bear think twice.
A horse corral carpeted with shredded industrial fabric.
All the while we talked story here and there and then it was time for dinner.
Simply put dinner was awesome. Fresh steamed green beans from the garden. Sweet corn we picked ourselves. And delicious steak bought at a bargain which only seemed to make it taste better. That and being marinated to perfection.
But a meal is only as good as the company you share it with. So again simply put dinner was awesome.
After dinner we retired to the patio once more. Again we talked story and drank Cokes while Austin smoked a "Jamaican Special" cigar. Family members sat and talked on the porch, warmed by the flames of a chimenea. Shooting stars were seen. In all it was an awesome night.
When I left around midnight Austin lent me a book The Complete Artists Way by Julia Cameron from which I stole the opening quote.
I've only just starred reading it but I wrote this morning so I suspect it may work. I've always thought that great art is otherworldly, that it comes from so far deep within our consciousness that it really doesn't belong to us. That maybe we're meant to be merely an instrument . Not the hand but the brush that paints the picture.
This was also the first meeting without founder Matt Harris, who was off visiting kin in North Cackalacka. In a nod to the brevity of his inaugural minutes I will give thumbnail sketch of the meetings proceedings:
Austin's workshop. Where humidors and edged weapons are crafted.
Introductions to clan Austin. The newest member being baby August. Don't let the name fool you he was born in September.
Meeting convened on patio poolside. Writing attempted but too many strange and curious sights to show guest such as a pistol and saber that charged San Juan Hill along with a Kreg rifle.
A farm house that dates back to the 1800s with floorboards that bow when you walked on them.
A corn field guarded by an electric fence powerful enough to make a black bear think twice.
A horse corral carpeted with shredded industrial fabric.
All the while we talked story here and there and then it was time for dinner.
Simply put dinner was awesome. Fresh steamed green beans from the garden. Sweet corn we picked ourselves. And delicious steak bought at a bargain which only seemed to make it taste better. That and being marinated to perfection.
But a meal is only as good as the company you share it with. So again simply put dinner was awesome.
After dinner we retired to the patio once more. Again we talked story and drank Cokes while Austin smoked a "Jamaican Special" cigar. Family members sat and talked on the porch, warmed by the flames of a chimenea. Shooting stars were seen. In all it was an awesome night.
When I left around midnight Austin lent me a book The Complete Artists Way by Julia Cameron from which I stole the opening quote.
I've only just starred reading it but I wrote this morning so I suspect it may work. I've always thought that great art is otherworldly, that it comes from so far deep within our consciousness that it really doesn't belong to us. That maybe we're meant to be merely an instrument . Not the hand but the brush that paints the picture.