Looking in this empty pickle jar full of watercolor water I see the ideas of brilliant literary minds. All the great works of Kurt Vonnegut live in the clouds swirling in a water. I hear it like it were books on tape. Makes me ponder the last time I read Slaughter House 5? The weird language and the old man humor aging me in my mind like hard candy. I remember a time I painted in the dark mostly with only a desk lamp and bad backlighting from street lights. it was shot but it was my shit to ender. I cranked a window so I didn't choke to death on fumes. Saw romance in the idea of dying for the brush strokes. INsane, I know but my twenties were a lot of me trying to self-destruct. I like to think the ability to see past my fingers and toes. The weird ways I would fall out of love with passions was like a fickled cat on a table batting at dust in the air. Maybe that is why I love cats. Narcissism is a bitch.
Miles of paper. A million lines to be set of beautiful watercolor paper. I want to make you proud but more so me proud.
I keep thinking about smoking in the Fall. The brown leaves remind me of freshly rolled Cohibas. I remember the first time I choked on a Cuban Cigar I was sick as a dog. I learned the romance was no the reality. Painting murals feel like that. I think that is maybe why I moved to paper. Paper has this human quality, it is like hips, ankles and jaw lines. They drive in ovals and go into lines wildly but beautifully.
I don't know. Late night ramblings
Part of me wishes we could sell our house in four months and move away. A slice of land and then build up two studios and forget Maryland. I'm not sure they like art that much.
art show in one day.
