I've abandoned for now the melodramatically self-important tone that seems to come along with self-portraiture - at least for me - in favor of fantasy. One of the delights of going to one of my dentists, in - or just beyond - Rocky Hill, is this sign. I always imagine the Painted Islands as being somewhere just off the west coast of Ireland - or maybe floating around in a marshy bit of bog, and hence unstable. Or maybe one damages their colored lichen. Or maybe they are just an illusion, floated there by demons, enticing one onto their slippery surfaces, their thin and brittle crusts. And what may be so dangerous on the other side? Somehow the sign looked very dull against still-wintry trees today (peculiarly dark and dismal, indeed, given the pale pink riot of cherry blossom and magnolia everywhere else), so it needed a little enhancement to bring out, if possible, the combination of the sinister and the surreally beautiful that's summoned up by the command.
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