Zane Grey not only had a name so cool they named his hometown Zanesville, but he had a great excuse to leave his wife, kids and Ohio farm for weeks at a time to do research: he was a writer. His secretary traveled with him through the wilderness, taking notes and organizing material for his Old West novels.

People talked.  Zane and his assistant were having a tryst.

If art is try, then an artist is a try-ist, shortened to tryst for the sake of play.

Art is try.  Artist is tryst.

If you decide to wander off into the murky world of trysts, be forewarned:  people will talk.  "It's just not right for a grown adult to frolic about so, when the rest of us have chores to do, kids to raise, bills to pay..."

Of course, artists I know tend to do all those things as well as anyone.  But we do need the sacred windswept getaway with only the muse for company on the lonely rides to who knows where.  Pick-up games of canasta with tumblers of spiced rum between our gloved hands in a coach car rattling through no mans land, sweeping us into evocative landscapes...

Our Euro-american mindset likes us home and down on the farm.  Time is measured by productivity; purpose by gold.  If you have nothing but art to show for your time, what good are you?

Lucky for Zane, his books caught on, paid the bills and proved his worth beyond his no-good-tryst-having behavior.  But many of us journey to the cusp of our consciousness, and beyond, with no gold in sight.  It's where we find the rarest of pleasures, the chatter hens mute, our own voices plaintively clear.

Public domain photo of Zane Grey