![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Jan. 12th, 2005
(no subject)
Jan. 12th, 2005 10:40 pmTonight I painted.
It's not all I did, but for me that is momentous. I painted and I did it with oils I haven't opened in over seven years. I painted despite the black having oozed and rotted, both tubes of cobalt sealed permanently shut, and a complete lack of yellow. No yellow. Again. I had forgotten entirely how to clean it all up, but I remembered this time to go easy on the turpentine mix in the paint. I wanted it to be thick, juicy, and when it dried, I wanted everyone to want to touch the swirls and valleys I had created.
It is only the very basic background. The next layers require yellow and cobalt and more white to mix in with all of the other colors. There is plenty of red and brown, or rather, there are plenty of reds and browns. Yet I have no money for this.
As it is, my one good bra for daily wear snapped yesterday. I sneezed. The underwire, having rusted inside the cloth from my sweat, snapped under the pressure from my ribs expanding for the sneeze. Pnt, it said. I am sad. If I am fortunate, I will make it through the month with bills paid and money enough for February's rent. If I am luckier, I will have money enough for February's bills as well. There is no room for yellow paint or bras in my budget, even considering the SWG I will be canceling soon. I afforded myself the luxury of two more paid months of LJ. I have a feeling there will be money in March. Maybe April. I'm crossing my fingers my W2 forms come very soon so I can process my tax refund early. Murrmru.
Started another story.
I am convinced that my penchant for starting stories and not finishing them is akin to my starting on the path to uncovering parts of my inner self, and then taking another fork in the road and not digging further. It would seem I am afraid of what I can do. I am afraid of what lies buried beneath the layers of me, those shadows I dare not face, and in my stories, I know I would find myself digging into me to bring forth the plight of each character. I am afraid of growing up and growing out and going deeper in.
Every word I wrote in my story tonight I had to pull from within me. I saw the flashes of scenes, but the words were hard to focus on to get the right images onto paper. I made a deal with my editor-self to let the muse run wild, but I caught editor making small suggestions throughout. In total defiance, I have not corrected the blaring mistake that one character's report to his master never came in during the melee like it should have. Oops. ::biting smirk::
My hands are a blue-green tint, as though I had soaked them in pureed algae. I have forgotten how to properly clean up my hands, palette, and brushes after painting with oils. Perhaps someone can refresh my memory. I do not recall needing to run turpentine over my hands, but soap would not do alone.
I danced today, and it was on my list. Along with the painting and writing. How creatively productive I have been while attending to my duties at work and at home. As assistant and mother. My last hour and a half at work was spent sorting old binders from the good ones, tossing the old ones into a pile, and carefully scrubbing off label glue from the remaining binders with rubbing alcohol. I used a food handler's glove to protect my skin from the alcohol, and did my best to avoid breathing directly over the stuff.
* * * * *
( my gift )
* * * * *
( babysitting )
... and now I return to bed where I will wrap my arm around her little waist, and remind myself of this:
Today I painted.
It's not all I did, but for me that is momentous. I painted and I did it with oils I haven't opened in over seven years. I painted despite the black having oozed and rotted, both tubes of cobalt sealed permanently shut, and a complete lack of yellow. No yellow. Again. I had forgotten entirely how to clean it all up, but I remembered this time to go easy on the turpentine mix in the paint. I wanted it to be thick, juicy, and when it dried, I wanted everyone to want to touch the swirls and valleys I had created.
It is only the very basic background. The next layers require yellow and cobalt and more white to mix in with all of the other colors. There is plenty of red and brown, or rather, there are plenty of reds and browns. Yet I have no money for this.
As it is, my one good bra for daily wear snapped yesterday. I sneezed. The underwire, having rusted inside the cloth from my sweat, snapped under the pressure from my ribs expanding for the sneeze. Pnt, it said. I am sad. If I am fortunate, I will make it through the month with bills paid and money enough for February's rent. If I am luckier, I will have money enough for February's bills as well. There is no room for yellow paint or bras in my budget, even considering the SWG I will be canceling soon. I afforded myself the luxury of two more paid months of LJ. I have a feeling there will be money in March. Maybe April. I'm crossing my fingers my W2 forms come very soon so I can process my tax refund early. Murrmru.
Started another story.
I am convinced that my penchant for starting stories and not finishing them is akin to my starting on the path to uncovering parts of my inner self, and then taking another fork in the road and not digging further. It would seem I am afraid of what I can do. I am afraid of what lies buried beneath the layers of me, those shadows I dare not face, and in my stories, I know I would find myself digging into me to bring forth the plight of each character. I am afraid of growing up and growing out and going deeper in.
Every word I wrote in my story tonight I had to pull from within me. I saw the flashes of scenes, but the words were hard to focus on to get the right images onto paper. I made a deal with my editor-self to let the muse run wild, but I caught editor making small suggestions throughout. In total defiance, I have not corrected the blaring mistake that one character's report to his master never came in during the melee like it should have. Oops. ::biting smirk::
My hands are a blue-green tint, as though I had soaked them in pureed algae. I have forgotten how to properly clean up my hands, palette, and brushes after painting with oils. Perhaps someone can refresh my memory. I do not recall needing to run turpentine over my hands, but soap would not do alone.
I danced today, and it was on my list. Along with the painting and writing. How creatively productive I have been while attending to my duties at work and at home. As assistant and mother. My last hour and a half at work was spent sorting old binders from the good ones, tossing the old ones into a pile, and carefully scrubbing off label glue from the remaining binders with rubbing alcohol. I used a food handler's glove to protect my skin from the alcohol, and did my best to avoid breathing directly over the stuff.
( my gift )
* * * * *
( babysitting )
... and now I return to bed where I will wrap my arm around her little waist, and remind myself of this:
Today I painted.