We're either leaving this evening or in the morning. Currently, that's up in the air. We were planning, today, to drive up to Max Yasgur's farm, the site of the "An Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music" (August 15 – August 18, 1969; I was was five years old). Woodstock did not actually happen in Woodstock. We might yet drive up; I just want to stay I stood there. Neil's home, and we should try to see him before we leave for Providence, whether that's tonight or whether that's tomorrow.
“If it’s bad, I’ll hate it because I hate bad writing. If it’s good, I’ll be envious and hate it all the more. You don’t want the opinion of another writer.” ~ Ernest Hemingway
Yesterday, we went to the Bearsville Farmer's Market, held in the famous Bearsville Theater. As you can imagine, there's not much in the way of winter crops up here, but there were vendors with marvelous things. I got bar of locally made lavender-scented goat's milk soap and Spooky got a jar of strawberry-rhubarb preserves, also locally made. We walked along the banks of the Sawkill. It's partly thawed, and melt water from the mountain is gurgling between the frozen banks. Bright clumps of moss have appeared, a grand fuck you to the winter and cold spring, courtesy the Bryopsida. Utter peace. The we drove out towards Saurgerties, to photographs the ruins of a very old house we've admired for months. It was a good time out. The sun was warm.
Here, Chuck Wendig says exactly what I think about the abominable "Clean Reader" and the indispensability of profanity. Read it.
A four-thirty a.m., I sat in a darkened cabin while Spooky slept, and the wendigo hammered the cabin and crept through the attic, and danced the walls. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I don't feel that sort of shit often.
Subterranean Press has posted the Table of Contents to False Starts II: Being Another Compendium of Beginnings.
God, this is a two Red Bull day.
Okay, I gotta go help Spooky pack and clean.
Later Spuds,
Aunt Beast
