Ants and Uncles

Sunday in December. It's as warm as summer. I had some visitors at my studio this morning, a swarm of carpenter ants. They're big. Imagine black Harley-Davidsons with wings. They were dropping from the ceiling rafters sounding a thud each time one fell. After about a half hour of trying to ignore the situation, I went after them, beheading the creatures with card stock, impailing them with pencils. By noon, the battle was over and I was the victor. I swept away all traces of carnage, and with it any momentum I'd had to paint today. My ambition fell prey to the glorious weather. I drove down the coast, visited the art gallery by the Spirit Garden, drove further to the Henry Miller Library where I bought a book of poetry by Robinson Jeffers. I overheard someone say they've come up with a new logo: "The Henry Miller Library...Where Nothing Happens." Totally brilliant!

On the drive back to Palo Colorado, I happened to be near my all time favorite scenic turnout around sunset. I stopped. A cool wind was whipping so I moored myself to a boulder to steady the camera. That's when I thought of my uncle.

Toward the end of his life, Uncle Bob once visited me when I was housesitting in Malibu. We watched a sunset together. He told me about "the green flash" you see just as the sun sets into the ocean. I thought he was pulling my leg so we watched intently. As I'd suspected, no green flash. Smiling, eyes twinkling, he insisted he'd seen it. It's phenomenal, he swore. Today, I once again trained my eye on the horizon waiting for the sun to drop, drop, drop already before I'm blind. Guess what, Uncle Bob....no green flash.

However, as my photographs will confirm, it was an amazing sunset.