Redtree Times

By failing to read or listen to poets, society dooms itself to inferior modes of articulation, those of the politician, the salesman, or the charlatan. In other words, it forfeits its own evolutionary potential. For what distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom is precisely the gift of speech. Poetry is not a form of entertainment and in a certain sense not even a form of art, but it is our anthropological, genetic goal. Our evolutionary, linguistic beacon.

–Joseph Brodsky, opening remarks as United States Poet Laureate, October 1991

I think that Joseph Brodsky, the late Soviet-exiled poet who went on to become the US Poet Laureate, is spot on with the comments above. Poetry, and all the arts, represents our highest form of articulation and connects us with the underlying rhythm, melody, and grace of the universe, drawing us closer to our highest potential. Art in its truest form serves as a unifying force, a voice of and for all people. 

I think that the embrace and expanse of the arts — or the neglect or rejection of it– can be a true barometer of a nation’s progress and potential. I think of the controlling regime in this country at this moment and I ask myself a number of questions.

What and where is its poetry?

What art, music, or literature defines and expresses the hopes of all its citizens? 

Where is its beauty, its grace? 

I haven’t found an answer to any of these thus far. That doesn’t mean there is not an answer that might shatter my whole hypothesis. But nothing jumps out to this inquiring observer. It is a regime that sees any artform expressing a desire for the unity and freedom of all people as being a hostile action.

It has no poetry. No music. No art. No literature. No theater. No dance. No humor. 

It seems to exist as a culture without culture.

And that is a society that is not healthy, one that cannot last for too long, let alone aspire to empire.

Okay, that’s all I want to say right now. There’s certainly more that could be said but that is the crux of what I needed to say this morning. 

Let’s have some music.

This song has been in my head in recent days, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to share it. It is from the great Mavis Staples‘ new album, Sad and Beautiful World. I shared the title track not too long ago. This song is Beautiful Strangers. It has a poetry, grace, strength, and courage that fits the post and this moment.

Beseech the Moons-At Principle Gallery

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

–Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom (1995)

What is courage?

There are plenty of definitions, but the short answer is that it is doing what needs to be done– the right thing in most cases — even though you are scared and have much to lose by doing so.

We are living in a precarious and dangerous time that has been brought about by a lack of courage by those who have professed to be leading and representing us. And we the public went along for the ride for too long. The lack of courage in our leaders became our own. It was easy just to glide along, not having to rock the boat. As a result, we are in a serious deficit of courage in this country at the moment. What courage we once had had become slack and weak, like a muscle that has not been used for a very long time. 

Unfortunately, or perhaps tragically, it has brought us to a point where courage is needed more than any time most of us have ever known in our lifetimes.

I am encouraged by the recent stirrings of newly awakened courage among the public in response to the atrocities being perpetrated on the American public and the rest of the world by the criminal organization that has taken over our government. It is a matter of courage begetting courage. The courage of others inspires other to act courageously.

Encouragement– courage is right here in the word.

This moment raises so many questions on the nature of our courage.

Can we muster enough courage to push back and stop the tides of tyranny?

Do we ever really know if we inherently possess the courage we’re going to need? Is it already placed within us, something written into our DNA that we can call on when needed? Or is courage something apart from us, a quality that is called to us when circumstances and time and place align? Or is it something we slowly attain with use and repetition, like the muscles I referenced above?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. Not even sure they can be answered by those with much more intelligence and wisdom than me. 

I do know that I have been both. More cowardly than courageous, actually.

I should give you examples, but I won’t. Mainly because I am not sure anything I’ve ever done qualifies as courage. 

And while there is doubt about my acts of courage, I won’t list my acts of cowardice because there is absolutely no doubt on that account. The shame and humiliation that comes with one’s own cowardice is an unmistakable stench that lingers with you. Plus, there are too many examples from which to choose.

Can you blame anyone for not wanting to list those times when they have been craven cowards?

Do we ever even know whether we have been courageous? Not all acts of courage are easily recognized or lauded whereas cowardice for some often comes with that stink I mentioned above. People eventually notice the coward.

Can a lifelong coward suddenly transform into a bastion of courage? Or are we forever labeled one or the other? Or is it as playwright Jean Anouilh wrote in his 1959 award-winning play Becket: 

Until the day of his death, no man can be sure of his courage.

Lots of questions without answers. Maybe this is how the cowardly avoid facing their fears. It’s worked for me on the past.

But maybe as Anouilh infers, so long as each of us walk this earth, there is still time for any person to see the light and change their final label from cowardly to courageous. 

I sure hope so. Who wants to be known as a coward for all eternity?

That’s just plain bad karma to carry with you for the rest of time.

Here’s a performance of a song that has been dogging my thoughts over the past several months. It’s a cover from several years ago of the 2003 song from the White Stripes, Seven Nation Army. This version is from Postmodern Jukebox featuring the mega-talented Haley Reinhart. They have transformed this generational rock anthem whose bassline is chanted endlessly in football stadiums around the country into a New Orleans-style funeral dirge. Haley Reinhart’s performance here is extraordinary. The subtle choreography of her gestures and facial expression along with her vocal range and the ease with which she belts out the words make this a tour-de-force.

And that is what we need right now, a tour-de-force, one that a seven-nation army can’t hold back. Let us all be encouraged.

Edward Hopper –Early Sunday Morning (1926)

On the Sunday morning sidewalks
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down

==Kris Kristofferson, Sunday Morning Coming Down

Another Sunday morning. Coming into the studio early this morning. I was struck by the need to hear Johnny Cash sing Kris Kristofferson‘s Sunday Morning Coming Down.

It just felt like one of those Sundays. One of those days that have the feeling of that song aa well as that of the Edward Hopper painting above, one of my favorites by him. It has a quietness tinged with melancholy. It is filled with a bright sunlight that doesn’t sanitize or wash away the shadows but only serves to highlight the sadness that covers everything like a fine coat of dust.

It has the feel of the calm before the storm. Or maybe after.

It represents those Sunday mornings in the past when the world seems to be shifting radically or has shifted for me, and I am trying to come to terms with the change. Mornings when the realization sets in of something lost or beliefs shattered.

I’ve known those Sunday mornings.

This morning has that same sort of feeling.

Not going to go into why this might be. With the madness taking place in this country coupled with dealing with the cancer while still trying to be a productive painter, there are a lot of obvious choices.

Let’s leave it there. On these Sunday mornings such as this, all you can do is gather yourself up in its quietness and try to steady yourself so that you can carry on.

Put on your cleanest dirty shirt, wash your face, comb your hair and stumble out the door to meet the day. I took some liberties with the song’s words since I didn’t shave this morning. To be honest, I didn’t wash my face yet. And I guess I didn’t comb my hair either. But you get the gist.

For this Sunday Morning Music here’s that song. Something solid to hold to this morning. This is a live version from Johnny Cash that I very much like. I think it’s the fact you can see him sweat, that this guy is working to please and connect with that audience. It has a sense of vulnerability and authenticity to it that certainly connects the song to me– a dirty-faced, unshaven, wild and white-haired older guy sitting in the dark on an ominously dead still Sunday morning.

Henri Rousseau, The Flamingos

What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?

-Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile (1762)

I thought that I’d take a bit of a break from the dark clouds that are milling around outside and share a post from a number of years back that emphasized one of the better, if not the best, traits available to us humans: kindness.  For many folks it sometimes feels as though it has become a rare bird these days. So much so that when it does make an appearance it takes your breath away in wonder.

I’ve been extremely fortunate to have seen this rare bird several times over the years.

Running this older short post turned out to be not so simple. It featured the quote above and attributed it to the wonderful artist Henri Rousseau, a favorite of mine. It seemed right at the time this post originally ran but now something seemed off. I began to question when and where Henri Rousseau uttered or wrote this. At the time it originally ran I sometimes made the mistake of blindly trusting what the Google machine and the internet as a whole told me.

Someone out there had to be doing the due diligence in verifying these things, right?

Well, over the years I have learned from such incidents that this is not the case. Sometimes– often actually– wrong info is adopted as fact by a wide swath of the internet. As a result, I have begun to try to locate and verify the source of the quotes and passages I use here.

Looking at this quote this morning, I decided I better do that due diligence. Took a mere minute to discover that the quote was not from the French painter Rousseau but was instead from a book by the 18th century Swiss philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who was a leading light in the Age of Enlightenment and had a huge influence on modern thought. His writings on the social contract between the people and government had a great effect on Thomas Jefferson as he wrote the Declaration of Independence.

 I would have liked to believe it was Henri Rousseau’s thought. It seems like something he might have said, based on the feel I get from his work. There’s a kind of inherent kindness in it. But it makes more sense that it comes from the great philosopher.

That kindness in itself is a form of wisdom is surely a philosophical concept. 

Anyway, my break, where all I wanted to do was share some Rousseau paintings that I love, turned into this.

Oh, well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Please don’t ask me where that phrase comes from or who said it first, though I think it was Plato.

Or Groucho. 

We’ll let that one go for today. That would be the kind thing to do.

Here’s a song, (What’s So Funny ‘Bout?) Peace, Love, and Understanding, that was a hit in 1979 for Elvis Costello. While I love that version, I also love the original from Nick Lowe who wrote and recorded the song in 1974. This is a more recent performance from Lowe. It has a gentleness and quietness that differs from the original, having more the feel of the wisdom of which Rousseau wrote. He is accompanied here by Los Straitjackets adorned as always in their Mexican wrestling masks. They have been around for a very long time and are an instrumental group that primarily plays surf rock. Fun stuff.

When they must despair, men will always prefer kneeling to standing.
It is their cowardice, their fatigue that aspires to salvation, their incapacity to embrace comfortlessness and in it find the justification of pride.
Shame on the man who dies escorted to his grave by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.”

— Emil Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born (1973)

I started putting this together yesterday while watching the furor grow over the ICE shooting of Renee Good in Minnesota. I debated writing let alone sharing this post since I espouse the idea of maintaining hope in much of my work and writing. I use the word hope a lot. Probably too much. It emerges reflexively and without thought now, taking away much of whatever power it holds.

And hope has some power. It is a noble concept, one that has helped many people through trying and dangerous times. But there are times when hope fails and even hinders the chances of survival. We sometimes hold on to hope like it is some sort of lifesaver keeping us from drowning, believing that if we simply hold on, someone else will come along and rescue us.

Recent history has shown us that is not always the case. Sometimes those who come along are not going to attempt to rescue you. Sometimes they are there to finish the job they started, as we bob helplessly on the waves.

Those are the times when hope be abandoned, along with the idea that there is someone else to come to our aid. Hope must be replaced with thought, action, and the will to overcome. This moment seems like an inflection point, one that brings us closer abandoning the hope that the checks and balances, guardrails, and legal constraints that serve as the lifesaver of hope to which we cling so desperately.

It is a time to rely on the power of hopelessness.

I know that sounds awful and darkly depressing. Well, these are deeply dark and depressing times.

I debated using the passage above from the 20th century Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran, who is known for a brutal pessimism and cynicism towards man that borders on total misanthropy. I can only read snippets of his work without wanting to open a vein though while I am repulsed, I sometimes finding myself laughing. For example, from the same book as the passage above comes this dark thought:

“Sometines I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.”

But in this book Cioran puts forth the idea of the belief in hopelessness as a sort of religion. And for this moment, that is how I am beginning to view it.

Below is a post from 2020, in the final year of trump’s first term at the beginning of the pandemic. Good times. It is about the power of hopelessness. It might even be our superpower if we can come to better understand what every authoritarian/fascist regime has failed to recognize: that the hopelessness and desperation they create makes their repressed citizens take risks and actions that would seem unthinkable in normal circumstances, that desperate times make for desperate actions.

Hopelessness is the seed of courage.

From 2020:

“The Americans have no sense of doom, none whatever. They do not recognize doom when they see it.”

― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

At the bottom of the moods swings that occupy my waking days and dreaming nights as of late. In the studio at 5:30 this morning, a Tom Waits song playing with huge clunking beats and his coarse, smoke burnt voice yelling over it all, And the earth died screaming/While I lay dreaming…

Shuffling through things, trying to find something to hold on to and I come across this little painting at the top, one that I quickly did years ago for my eyes only. Never meant to be shared, just a private reminder to myself of those days when the dark crows of doom have gathered around my door. Meant to keep me aware of the signs that appear when these crows are coming back, to remind me of the immense fatigue and sense of doom they bring with them so that I might be able to stay clear of them this time.

To avoid hopelessness.

But sometimes hopelessness cannot be avoided.

If you have been at a point without hope, you know there are only two outcomes:  to succumb to the doom or fight. You realize that hope, at that point, has become your enemy, a distraction that weakens your resolve and keeps you from being fully engaged in the battle.

Hope is a tool used by agents of doom, to tyrants and despots who tie themselves to religions that keep the masses passive with promises of better days ahead and in lives after this one on earth. Hope makes you look forward when you need to be only in the here and now. Hope makes you sloppy and inattentive, willing to surrender to nearly the same terms and conditions– and often worse– that have brought you to this point.

Hope is a promise unfulfilled, a wish without action.

No, in times of doom, hopelessness is your greatest ally.

Hopelessness demands action.

Hopelessness is the greatest agent of change.

Hopelessness is fearless, with nothing left to lose.

I wasn’t planning on writing this this morning. God, I want to be cheery and optimistic and, dare I say, hopeful. I have always preached hope on this blog but that was in times when I thought the future was still a bright sky, not a dark and foreboding one like the one I see now, where the storm clouds have been amassing for the last four years. I’ve watched them gather but hope made me think it would somehow resolve without me engaging, that the sky would brighten of its own accord.

But I was wrong to trust hope. I can’t turn to hope this morning.

No, I am looking to hopelessness as my savior. I’ve have sometimes visited that abject blackness down where hopelessness dwells and it has always sent me back upwards. It has invariably set me in action and stiffened my resolve. It has made me realize that this life is a precious thing that is worth fighting for, against all hope.

Against all hope. I never thought about that term before, though I have used it on more than one occasion. I think we are at that point, where we must struggle against all hope with hopelessness as our great ally.

So, for the time being, I am setting hope aside. Oh, I’ll hope you’re doing well and staying safe because I want us all to have a brighter future at some point soon. But I will not depend on hope or trust that it will bring that desired future.

Only hopelessness can do that.

“Exile on Main Street“- (2020)

I actually attack the concept of happiness. The idea that—I don’t mind people being happy—but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It’s a really odd thing that we’re now seeing people saying “write down three things that made you happy today before you go to sleep” and “cheer up” and “happiness is our birthright” and so on. We’re kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position. It’s rubbish. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say, “Quick! Move on! Cheer up!” I’d like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word “happiness” and to replace it with the word “wholeness.” Ask yourself, “Is this contributing to my wholeness?” and if you’re having a bad day, it is.

~Hugh Mackay, The Good Life (2013)

I came across the passage above from Australian psychologist Hugh Mackay recently and it pretty well summed up a thought that has been with me for some time. We downplay the value of those less-than-happy moments that are simply part of the human experience. We raise this idea of happiness high above us as an ultimate goal. As a result, we view our failures, losses, and disappointments as a source of shame, evidence of our weakness and intellectual deficiency. Something that marks us as being somehow inferior and incomplete.  Something to hide away and try to forget.

In my own way, I have long embraced Mackay’s concept that it is our wholeness as human beings that is more important than our happiness, which is a temporary emotion. I see wholeness as an understanding that life will give us both giddy highs and dismal lows and being accepting and appreciative of both.

In my life I have had plenty of these failures, losses, and disappointments. I’ve went through bankruptcy, foreclosure, repossession, firings, loss of loved ones, and illness– physical and mental.

Did they make me happy? Of course not. At the time each was a horrid experience. But each carried with it a lesson that could only be learned from that experience. Each lesson brought new perspectives and understandings. Each changed me in some way, some more than others.

These were lessons that taught, collectively, that in order to find any contentment in this world, one has to understand and accept that these down moments are, like happiness, temporary.  Knowing this, it becomes much easier to accept and tolerate– and even find humor– in the bad times.

These lessons were invaluable in becoming what I hope is a more whole human being.

Mackay’s concept of wholeness rather than happiness as a goal makes sense to me. Sure, I want to be happy. When I am happy, I now recognize and appreciate it for what it is. I accept it gladly but don’t expect it all the time. And when I am not happy, I recognize and appreciate it for what it is, as well.

And with those moments of non-happiness now, there is a sense of contentment and moderation that comes in knowing that it is just part of our being a more whole human being.

I had a goofy little anecdote that I was going to include here but it will have to wait until another day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

Who knows?

Here’s a song that is kind of in this vein. It’s Happy from the Rolling Stones off their classic 1972 album Exile on Main Street. For this moment it makes me happy. And contented.

Not Dark Yet— 2026– Coming to West End Gallery

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there’s been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin’ what was in her mind
I just don’t see why I should even care
It’s not dark yet, but it’s gettin’ there

— Bob Dylan, Not Dark Yet (1997)

Woke up at 4 AM this morning tired and bleakly grumpy. The tired part is not unusual– it is 4 in the morning after all– but the grumpy part seemed out of place since I have been feeling pretty good over the past couple of weeks. I have been tolerating my treatment exceptionally well and I actually feel healthier, more vibrant, than I have felt in a few years. Things seem to be going relatively smoothly and I find myself enjoying and appreciating small things once more.

In fact, there have been days when I have felt sublimely content with my life as it is at the moment despite the best efforts of the darker forces of this world to fill me with dread.

This morning’s dark tone thus felt strange and unwelcome. I know this feeling all too well. It was a companion for much of my adult life, especially those years before I was forty. I learned over time how to deal with it and for the most part have banished from my kingdom. But every so often it creeps in through the back gate and jumps on my back until I can shake it loose and give it the old heave-ho.

It was clinging to my back as I crossed through the woods in the dark. I came into the studio and performed my usual routine of chores and coffee. I then decided maybe I could find something in my new work that might shed some light or at least help me loosen this critter’s grip.

I finally got back to work in the past week. The past few months have been a barren desert of creativity as I dealt with my health issues. But I had a deadline for the annual Little Gems show in February at the West End Gallery and my June show at the Principle Gallery staring me in the face, so I had no choice but to get back to work.

Thank god for deadlines.

It was such a long time away from the work that I felt like I was in some ways starting over. Awkward. As in the past when I have taken short breaks, I decided to begin with small simple pieces in tones of gray and black. It usually takes a while to get my color groove back and the black and gray work allows me to work on composition and blocking in forms without worrying about color. That comes back in its own way and time frame.

I looked at the first piece of this first session back to work, the first of 2026. It is the painting at the top, black and gray with a tiny touch of color. This first effort had not come easy. I never felt totally comfortable and second-guessed every move. But I knew from decades of experience to trust the piece to show me what it wanted to do, where it wanted to go. I didn’t try to force it to go one way or the other and let it grow and form on its own.

I needed to look at it this morning. It very much had that same feeling attached to it that was clinging to me now. But it also had a way out, an escape hatch.

A glimmer of hope. A bit of light against the darkness.

It was just the reminder I needed in this moment.

I can already feel that little bastard losing its grip. Just writing that sentence made me smile. That’s a good sign.

He’ll be thrown outside the kingdom walls– with extreme prejudice! — by later this morning. Guaranteed.

I am calling this little gem Not Dark Yet after the Bob Dylan song from his 1997 Time Out of Mind album. The lyrics and tone of it seem to mesh with this piece well, at least as I see it. I am including a cover of this song from Americana singer/songwriter Shelby Lynne. To be honest, I don’t know much about her or any of her other work. But I came across this version of the Dylan song performed with her sister, Allison Moorer, and thought it was exceptionally well done. Effectively lovely.

Like the painting, it has some darkness yet still holds on to a bit of hope.

Sometimes the tiniest sliver of light, of hope, is all that you need…

Sharing Heart– At Principle Gallery

My father had decided to teach me how to grow old. I said O.K. My children didn’t think it was such a great idea. If I knew how, they thought, I might do so too easily. No, no, I said, it’s for later, years from now. And besides, if I get it right it might be helpful to you kids in time to come.

They said, Really?

My father wanted to begin as soon as possible.

[…]

Please sit down, he said. Be patient. The main thing is this — when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.

That’s a metaphor, right?

Metaphor? No, no, you can do this. In the morning, do a few little exercises for the joints, not too much. Then put your hands like a cup over and under the heart. Under the breast. He said tactfully. It’s probably easier for a man. Then talk softly, don’t yell. Under your ribs, push a little. When you wake up, you must do this massage. I mean pat, stroke a little, don’t be ashamed. Very likely no one will be watching. Then you must talk to your heart.

Talk? What?

Say anything, but be respectful. Say — maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember.

–Grace Paley, My Father Addresses Me on the Facts of Old Age (2002)

Crossing the path through the woods to the studio I was already beginning to think of what I could write for this blog. I got up late, so in my mind I was rushing. Late is a relative term for me. It was 5 AM before I stepped out into the darkness to head to the studio this morning, already starting to fret that time was flying away.

I’m living with a weird time cycle now that would have been unthinkable years ago, rising in what some would consider the middle of the night and sometimes falling asleep before what most people would consider dinner time. I feel this insane need to write something, knock back a couple of cups of coffee, and do at least a 30-minute workout before heading home for breakfast so any loss of time puts my fragile mind into panic mode.

I digress. 

Coming into the studio, after taking care of the studio cats and putting on the coffee, I am remembering that I have some half-written posts waiting to be used. Not even half-written, just snippets and passages from other people that I have come across that interested me. Some pertain to art, some don’t. They just need to be filled out and given a rough polish before I hit the publish button. I say rough polish because that is all I have time for even on my regular schedule.

It often shows. Again, I digress.

It was this passage at the top from the late writer Grace Paley that was freshest in my mind. It was from a story she wrote at age 80 for the New Yorker in 2002. My Father Addresses Me on the Facts of Old Age was about an experience years before with where her father was trying to instruct on how to grow old.

Her father was Jewish and had been born in 1880’s in Ukraine while it was still Czarist Russia. He and Paley’s mother (also Jewish and Ukrainian) came to the USA in the first decade of the 1900’s. He learned English by reading Dickens and eventually trained and became a doctor.

Her father is also the subject of another piece, A Conversation with My Father, that is a wonderful short piece about him, at age 86 and ailing, wanting her to write a real short story for him. It has the kind of back and forth that one would expect between an old father and a loving child trying to please him while still trying to not be something they are not.

I think I got that right, but who knows anything at 6:30 in the morning?

I now notice that I have spent too much time on background info. The clock is racing against the schedule that is concreted into my brain and winning. I am starting to panic, trying to figure out how I can wrap this up without it seeming like a hairball that one of my cats just hocked up on the floor.

I then come back to what it was that attracted me to this passage from Grace Paley in the first place. It was this idea of taking the time to gently rub your heart. To put your hand on it and speak gently to it, to ask it to continue to work. To ask it to remember those times before when it worked so hard for you and to let it know how much you care for and appreciate its efforts. 

The idea of an old man telling his grown child this lovely thought has a beautiful intrinsic naivete that I found touching when I first encountered it. And as the clocks furiously away, I find it even more so as it calms my own heart a bit. Makes me appreciate all the hard work my heart has done on my behalf. Makes me want to give it a break for this moment, to let it relax and enjoy the moment with me.

 I find myself whispering, Remember, remember…

I am not yet an old man– though I am well on the way to it– I find myself being a little embarrassed by this. But in the end, I don’t care if it seems foolish or naive. It’s my heart and I will do what I will with it.

You take care of your own heart.

Mission accomplished for this morning. Now time’s a-wasting and I have things to do. You better get out of here before I actually become an old angry old man shaking my fist at you, demanding you stay off my lawn.

I swear I’ll do it. Now, git…