Christina, by the way, is a worldly soul, hungry for adventure, who long ago spun out of Iowa in the shape of a pretty woman with a sharp mind. She’s been following me around with a microphone and camera as she  teaches herself how to be a professional documentarian. She’s like the anthropologist, I’m the pygmy. A nice benefit of our pairing has been simple friendship.

Our first field trip was to the forest in the middle of last week on a mild and sunny day. We went to one of my favorite paths, a secret jungle off Damascus-Church Road. I love to keep in touch with plant life during their springtime transformations, especially those plants from knee-height and down, a perfect activity for a slow walker like me.

I went barefoot across a little stream that ran over the path. It was a pleasure to feel the grass under my feet, even the sharp rocks felt good. I accidentally stepped on a large beetle.

On Friday night, we went to the Masters of Fine Art show at the Ackland Museum. It was neat-O because I had worked with the grad students a year earlier so everything felt familiar, but fresh to my eyes. I got to visit with colleagues, former students and associates. And, I met some new people. I wore a cap to hide my scars, although I can’t ever seem to cover the skin graft at the back of the neck. Anyway, a black cashmere cap with a thin gray band, black suit, gray t-shirt and dangly round earrings, mother of pearl like back home Bright white sneakers and a cane. I called the look “Hip-hop Indian Chic.” I had to up my look because I knew Christina was going to pull some A-list item out of her closet, and she did. She wore a simple, but daring black dress, Apache-style knee-high boots and a necklace of poker chip-sized disks of wood and nacre hung together with fine wire. It had the feeling of an earthy Caldwell mobile that came rest on her chest. I thought my earrings and her necklace had nacreous serendipity.

On Saturday afternoon we went to a block party in Durham. It was a part of community art project guided my old friend Brett Cook-Dizney. I say old friend because we showed work in a group show in New York back in 2000. We are art-world kin, brothers who keep crossing paths. Mercifully, I didn’t need to walk far, just down and up a city road for, well, a block.

My chickadee neighbors have gone quiet, even Mr. Chickadee, who was constantly delivering fluffy down to the birdhouse. I have no clue where he was finding all that material. Is there a ruptured pillow in the forest?

Well, Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee haven’t been going out. I know they’re in there. The birdhouse hangs from a branch like a pendular on a clock and the house swings when they are inside moving around. I always say, if this birdhouse is a rockin,’ don’t come a’ knockin.’