early june morning.

Woke up with reflections of miro, his spanish gardens & basque colors, his pastorals with the rich furrows of land anchored by plastered homes made of clay hands, and miro was painting the wondrous wisdom of the Peasant in his sundrenched canvases but then his metal sculptures appeared, les oiseaux of starlike appearance, a songful launch of cosmic form, the bird like a feminine hand arching into a stream's current (miro was sculpting the bird's song as much as the bird's appearance: the birds presence). miro's large blue paintings (heroic & grand if not tragic and suffering) and the genitalia/farmanimals becoming constellations (earth and her fragrant needs) and the amorphic swells of shape that reference any organic being or no organic being. irving penn's portrait of miro featured his sunleather hands of thick-muscle gentleness, a painter's hands maybe but hands accustomed to work, a slight sepia behind the silver gelatin tones of the print. 

i swallowed coffee before lacing the salomons and heading out to blue clay trails to run a loop of six miles where i fell into the terrain of the earth and pushed up and leaned in and acquiesced to the trail's demands which were many. . . blue clay trails are smooth, fast, yet remain technical with a lot of humps and jumps and the roots are still prominent; speedchess for the feet. the trail engages the body as the dank smell of trees baking and the shifting light of a trail engage the mind. 

running roots while contemplating a painter and his work. different seasons call for different communions.  sometimes we commune in paint, or physical movement, sometimes patient quiet, sometimes ravenous excess. sometimes we are simply autonomous roaming beings, delighting in an angle.