Ex- — martin sumner

I have retired as an artist – it has been too troubling.

A job at the post office will suit me just fine. Or the dockyard, or the bread factory, the yoghurt factory, the cereal factory. Give employment to my limbs and heart, but leave my brain out of this. I want to send my brain on holiday, rest my mind awhile, let my thoughts wander where they will.

Alright, alright, I’m not retiring of course, but I don’t want to practice at the moment. And when I do, it will be in a different way. In my way. No more community work.

Amos Well

There's a black dog up on the hill yonder. My Amos wouldn't tolerate the dogs on his fields but nowadays they run wild with nobody to stop them. Standing here on the back porch I always thought of that hill as Amos Ridge, though never said such a thing to him, lest he take the strap to me like some poor child he taken a dislike to. Everything around here got the mark of Amos upon it, including me. This is his farm. Amos Farm. That there: his field. Amos Field. Follow Amos Track down to the old barns where Amos done his slaughtering. Those poor cows afforded no dignity, in life or death. Amos Barns. Amos Meat. And then there's me. Wife, he called me. Like I got no name of my own. Amos Wife. Well, not any more. Not since I took a rock to him, and put him down the well, bloody and confused and maybe a mite regretful. Now I'm Amos free.