Painting not so much the past few days, but writing up a storme …
1440 odd words yesterday but must rest today post physical therapy and pre —
Sunday morning I did a ton of research on art opportunities from artdc. So many due this week but no money for fees. Hopeful for later ones and applied for those that are free and planning for one due early December that is free.
Worn out, tho. In many ways …
Reading and writing is where I am at … at …
My new Alberto Blanco DAWN of the Senses came — a pretty single penny I had to pay for it plus shipping for it is slightly used. I care not. I think of all the work that went into it, all the life and soul to create and translate it and bring it into existence … and a penny for it, sure, I’ll pay for shippin.
Gah. Worth vs. value. Thrift stores.
Crazy value it is for a penny.
Like the Lou Reed’s passing cover on the recent Rolling Stone, how much is that worth worth? oh, everything it is I tell you. It’s a … sigh … keeper, you bet.
Cherish the ladies… cherish the lot of us …
So it turns out Alberto Blanco is not only living, he’s a Buddhist who also is a master of Chinese literature. Wow. Learning and learning.
Mapas is the poem that has eight sections that I’m both reading now in the new book in the waiting room, right? and in the bed, and writing about line by line in the novel.
Interspersed with two people who are not supposed to be making out making out almost downstairs. Gah. I’m kind of really getting into the poem avoiding the couple downstairs and will eventually have to get back to them, yes?
It’s that mesmerizing a poem for the sole character reading in her own bed upstairs. Of course she regrets being alone, but the poem is keeping her company for the night.
I don’t think a single poem has ever been so important in my life.
Hmm. I think I am living a blessed intellectual and artistic existence although I am not blessed with my other limitations.
I.e., I must rest — I am worn out. Create another day.
I rest and layers and layers come down, fall off of me. like shields, barriers, cracked pieces of muscle tension. I’m blessed to have the ability to rest.
But lately, I’ve been having more intense and brutal memories of how one mult-year, multi-abuser series ended in flashes of yuck — very painful spikes of visual and emotional stuff to remember — from shock to horrible pain about what happened —
so … I’ve been coping with that, too
maybe that’s why writing has been more amenable or something? It is National Novel Writing Month — and I’m trying — but painting can be emotional and my emotions spiking on a delicate old growth forest painting could be disastrous —
but mostly I’m just feeling very down and needing to rest when I’m not writing —
so — I’m a rest me now — 🙂 thank you for listening you all 🙂