
It was in the autumn of 1915, after Carmichael had married, that I moved into the Shack behind the Studio.
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EditIt was in the autumn of 1915, after Carmichael had married, that I moved into the Shack behind the Studio.
Shall I not be real as the things I see?
The Studio Building was great for painting large canvases. The Shack - even better.
Shannon knows better than to challenge me or to instigate an incident with Martin Jr. He tells him to leave.
Shannon is handling the situation with Martin Jr. Shannon finds me in my room and asks for the flag. I say I don't have it.
I am back @mowatlodge. Before long, I hear a rough knocking on the door. It's Martin Jr. shouting and demanding his flag back.
I am gone before Martin Jr. has an opportunity to apprehend me. I run south along the short, cut through the birches and get back on the tote road.
As I am raising the Provincial flag, I hear a shout. Martin Jr. is looking out the window. He sees me and begins to rush to the door.
I untie the rope holding the flags. I bring them both down and remove the U.S. flag. I roll it up and shove it in my pocket.
The lights are still on. The Blechers are still awake. I hear voices, mostly Bessie. As usual, she is upset about something.
Why does a Nation have to define itself by War? Why not by Art?
It is that that makes an angler: it is diligence
In my early days back in Toronto, I enjoyed the city immensely. I was a bit of a dandy.
Mystery is not the same a misunderstanding.
Angling was not contemptible in the days of Mark Antony and Cleopatra,- Izaak Walton
That an artist needs to be depressed and drunk to do his best is utter myth
I see another figure exiting the Trainor household, It's Hugh. I have to leave before we make a scene.
We hear the screen door slap. Hugh Trainor comes staggering in. 'What in hell's name is he doing here?'
Be humble, be healthy, be willing to be taught.
Avoid entering a canoe with anyone who displays evangelical fervour.
I go to church but have no formal religion.
Follow the Journal of My Last Spring on nostr. Tweeting in real-time from 1917