"Are you painting?"

My grandma asked. How nice it is - just in general, to forget any idea we have of expectations, or invisible hurt, and just realize They're Interested.

As soon as you start "doing" something, the people who care will say : "How is it? Are you doing it?" This is a takeaway to the lovesick culture who is nauseated by the adage upon greeting "What do you do?" In place of ostensible "Hello, tell me about you. Let's crack the surface." Our eyes reek with dog eared sentiments of:Capitilism. The romantics revolt."WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT DO YOU DO?!" We sneer mockingly - to our own fault.

We could simply answer: The truth.

I wake up every morning and make coffee. It's a good one, I have it down to a science. A splash of cold milk in a warm cup, and THEN the French pressed explosion hurtling to the bottom of the glass. Don't burn your tongue - you dip a muffin, a filmy chocolate doughnut a "guilty pleasure' supermarket grand, even though you hate the term "guilty"

And then you could go into why you don't like the term guilty pleasure, and I tell you - from that exchange they know more about you then they ever could have and your question has been answered. "WHY DO THEY ASK what I DO!?" : They want to know. So let go of your expectations, invisible hurt and just realize: They're interested.

So to answer her question: I said "I haven't today, and I didn't yesterday" And we talked about the canvas. Ever since I put brown on the canvas I was really asking the Lord, "Really?" and he said "yes" - and I said "Am I done with this one?" And he said "no". But because I'm human, and I couldn't jive with the pressure, or the lack of it - or who knows. I stood still. I think it was the paint mixing. What color next? I hadn't simplified, gone back to basics. But now I have. Or at least I will. Writing this is nice.

And so was seeing my grandparents.

Here's a picture for updates:

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

We isolate ourselves. We do. Completely alone in our own heads: HELLO IN THERE. Yes, you are in there. We are, everyday. The recognition of this can cause a twinge of claustrophobia. The aversion to l