I don't even know what subject to ramble about this Friday.
So we'll talk paint.
In the midst of the last several, ridiculously crazy-thought provoking-make me wish I lived on an island-wave the White Flag kind of weeks, my saving grace has been paint.
In between leaking toilets, drywall dust and floor fans taking over my house, I put paint down.
In between my child barfing and cleaning the toilets that do work, I put paint down.
In between wanting to throw in the towel, say I quit, and stomp my foot like a three year old, I put paint down.
When I can't even figure out my own emotions or how to express them, I haul out paint.
And while I do, it seems that time stops for a little bit and I can breathe.
I think about the words I have brewing in my head.
I think about the words I have read in the morning and the quiet that seems to be either deafening or elusive.
Other times while I paint, my mind stops.
I mix paint on a tray, I mix paint in my hands.
I look at color, I wonder what would be pleasing, I try a new stamp or a spray, layer and scrape.
I look at old photos and wonder about the people. The one on the right, leaning in. Was she especially sensitive? Was she missing someone? Was she wondering when it would be "her turn"?
In the scene on the beach, was it a wild and wooly, wind-swept day? The beach is empty. Did they skip school and responsibilities to play? Who took the photo?
More paint, more texture.
A pen here, a scratch there.
I want to throw out the clocks in my house and pretend there is no where else I need to be, no one else that will ask me questions, not worry about anyone or anything.
Instead, I grab another canvas, dig through old books and music, look at words.
I think about color.
I peel dried glue off of my hands and don't notice that my work station is buried.
All too soon, it's time to turn away and go back to other responsibilities.
Thankfully, the paint will wait for me and instead of waving a white flag,
I'll wave a paintbrush.