i saw a seedling in a crannied wall

For the past week I've been having a go at planting with a different company about fifty minute's drive from my place. What does this have to do with art? Nothing, except that planting is generally what I do so that Anya, the dog and I can keep eating when people don't pay me tens of thousands of dollars to create masterpieces for their homes.

So, if you're wondering why you haven't seen my new brilliant painting against the use of cell phones, it's because it's not done. It has been hanging, incomplete, on the wall of my living room while I've been hanging onto the side of a cliff face with forty pounds of trees strapped to my waist.

You know how you drive through a national park and you see those trees growing amongst the rocks on a mountainside and you think, "man, I wonder how those things grow there?" Well, I have the answer for you. They grow there because poor schmucks like me put them there. In the driving rain. For nineteen and a half cents.

That's right, my friends. Your inability to scrape together a measly twenty thousand dollars has forced me to risk life and limb and brain-pan in order to pander to this slave-driving digestive tract of mine. Are you proud of yourself?

I jest, of course (somewhat). Planting is quite lovely. I found a brown salamander two days ago. The mountains are pretty. I'm building character. Still, if you happen to live on one of those rich-people acreages on the outskirts of Mission below some really nasty-looking cut-blocks, could you please tell your dogs to shut up? They're driving me crazy.