I'm not good in the sun. I become delicate, prone to red blotchiness, emotional outburst, dark mood, dizziness and fainting. I wasn't always like this, but a sin must have caught up with me, and my punishment here on earth is to wear a large hat, long sleeves and Fagin gloves to function when walking around under blue sky. Nor am I much good in the wild during any kind of weather. Yet it's in the wild that Blackberry grow, which means that to pick Blackberry I prefer paths to walk upon. These paths don't have to be manicured or edged, they just have to be good enough to keep the longer grass from touching my knee, and an occasional signpost is useful in the event of panic, and what with the weak ankles it's difficult to run far or fast.
The Artist, on the other hand, seems very at home up to her neck in the tall grass and briars. Hours and hours spent trundling on behind a machine which spews hot exhaust and which makes the sort of noise that rattles the brain waves, sends them spiraling toward thoughts of the end times and phrases like "blessed release." I prefer to think The Artist's own life here on earth has been exemplary, otherwise I fall into a trap laid by guilt, and the sense some of us have of a heavy hand with a qualification in gender studies, out there constantly criticizing, and which I am sure is perfectly normal. And yes, I smoked several cigarettes on the porch while I checked on progress around Blackberry patches, which this year look excellent.