THE FIFTIETH PAGE

When I moved to the country, I had not yet traversed the great chain of being for civilized man: read, travel, cook (which I eventually came around to), garden (ditto), die. I had never been comfortable with the alternate chain of the uncivilized (work, eat, fuck, die) but it was necessary to dwell from time to time in the alternate chain; the mortgage had to be paid. The blessings of the portable job that required little more than a pile of manuscript and a pad of foolscap continued. Being paid to read still seemed miraculous to me.

Reading amidst the books in the house satisfied me in the early years. There was little outside the house to engage my interest. Leisurely walks through the greensward lost their appeal when Mother Nature attached herself through burrs and ticks. A stroll downhill required an uphill return--fine for the kiddies, but not so much fun for an adult accustomed to seemingly flat terrain of Manhattan sidewalks. The village offered little enlightenment or recreation to residents for it was created for the use of outlanders, mostly from New Jersey, it seemed.

The villagers in this legendary colony of the arts were best avoided. Residents in the village and environs were to be avoided at all expense for behind every tree and under every rock was hidden an artist, painting and writing and singing his little heart out.