Today, as she and I sat alone together overlooking the view from our front patio, my wife Catherine, from quite deep in her ruminations, said, “You know what the deal is, don’t you?”
I allowed as how I mainly didn’t.
“We all want to return to a place we’ve never known, but that we all know exists,” she said.
She says stuff like that all the time. [Tweet that one.]
The other night while we were washing dishes, out of nowhere she goes, “We’re coming into a time when it will be understood that the creation of art is never anything but a communal act, that it’s not possible for it to be anything else—that the notion of the lone genius artist is romantic, but false. No one works alone.”
I was, like, “Sooooo … do you wanna hand me that plate?”
I swear, it’s like being married to a … hot Yoda.
I mean, I’ve managed to adjust and everything. But still.
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