Eventually I will talk about painting again, as opposed to life as art.

I keep deleting my posts before I publish, as I think perhaps I've crossed the line from art into therapy.


Meanwhile, a little shameless self-promotion over at Coagula Art Journal. I'm wearing a kick-ass blazer my friend Rochelle gave me after she no longer wore it. 


Today will be a multi-pot coffee day. The studio is a hideous array of disarray. I think I will feel better when I deliver my paints to the post office in their little flat rate boxes, knowing they will be waiting for me when I arrive. I'm still concerned about Fang making the trip. He didn't seem too interested in breakfast this morning. It seems like when one accepts death, there is a distancing that happens. Fang stopped sleeping on my bed a couple of months ago. Then he stopped sleeping beside the bed. For the last month he has been sleeping in the hall, also known as the spiritual center of the house because it's got the best vantage point to every portal. In the middle of the night, I can hear him try and get up or change positions, so I'll get up and assist him out the door and then boost him up the steps to get back in. Other than that, we seem to exist in the same space with each other, quietly accepting each other's temporal presence.