Used to be I wanted the day to stretch itself into the evening. There was no such thing as a too-long day. Now I root for long shadows, waning light, and the sun can't make it to the other side of the house fast enough to suit me. When it does, that's when I chase daylight. I open the shades and long for the soft light to linger. The harsh manmade light just isn't natural. We turn on the lamps when we are forced to; overhead lighting is always the last resort. I sit before my favorite window at the same time everyday--chasing evening's light. Everything on my desk is so much prettier then; the sun's heat bypasses the window on its slow westward plunge; please don't tell me it's time to make dinner.
I simply want to draw. I need to sip lemony water through a glass straw and enjoy the tinkle ice cubes make when they tease the glass--playing tag with each other. This is the image I've had in my head since Wednesday. Art does imitate life, my friends.
No, I didn't draw on blue paper. This is waning light on Rhodia white. I promise you it really is. The headphones are merely
ligaments (thanks spellcheck) a figment of my imagination, the upstairs walker is candy apple red while the downstairs four legged mode of support is medical supply gray. JC calls my hiking stick my Moses stick. It's been in retirement mode since I gave up stumbling around the man-made bayou. I blame the rough chunks of clay that make up the path for the damage to my left foot. Oops! This drawing is a reverse of my reality. Hmm. Wonder what Freud would say? Art imitates life?
If this happened to my right hand I could blame all the letter-writing I imagine doing. But, since it's the opposite hand (sigh) I must lay blame at truth's door: It's the result of the death grip I have on the walkers. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I'm meant to be a super wealthy woman who has servants to carry her when she needs carrying, write for her when she needs writing done, and yes-yes-yes! a
cook chef! Oh. And a colorist for the cartoon moments I love drawing.
I found an actual Christmas gift behind the reading chair in the room where I write. Someone's getting two gifts. Sure hope they're not duplicates. I refuse to open what's been taped shut and make a mess of things.
Mail goes out tomorrow. If all goes well.
One more envelope for the mail bag. It's filled with paper goodies from Flow. Everyone has an inner cowgirl, so what a clever way to pretty up a plain white 'velope. Yippie yi yay, y'all!
We should make summer a season of postcard sending. Confuse the postal system! No matter. Write on.
Seven more days . . . But who's counting?