Hell, if Joan Mitchell can hang there, why not I? Going in circles, figuratively and literally, it would seem. A long, long time ago, a friend recommended art therapy. All painting classes were filled, so I wound up in Low Fat Fiction, a writing class centered around economy of words, very fun, but also very cerebral, left brained as it were. This is all right brain, this messing around with paint. And it is best when there is no seminal idea associated with it. It is best when it just emerges from the action of palette knife and paint with the paper. You might notice that there is often more than one pigment on the knife at any given moment. This comes from the impatience of the painter, not wanting to stop to wipe off the knife before picking up that next pigment that just seems to belong right THERE. Wild and crazy woman, here, pushing my comfort zone, wanting to experience flying free of all the conventional art out there. I think this one is about rising out of the murk. At least its orientation at the moment suggests that. I think I actually painted it upside down. Ah, that is the beauty of abstraction, isn't it? Wouldn't it be heaven if I could view my life from the same perspective, better upside down than right side up?
What can I say? Turmoil, very little of anything happening at this moment. Still in PJs, it is 12:30 PM, bed not made, laundry languishing in dryer, dogs wondering if they will be eating today. Oh, and camera not uploading photos. Where is that damned disc, anyway? Looks like an opportunity to dust the bookshelf over the computer desk. Piano is looking pretty fuzzy, too. Depression sucks, in case you didn't know that. Therapy is OK, though not fond of beating the couch with a tennis racket. Cannot seem to discipline myself in any aspect of life at the moment. Now on the hook for a dessert this holiday. Really. Me, bake? Well, it may happen. I could get out recipe for lemon bars. Those are easy and always come out just fine. Sounds like a plan to me. A plan is always a good thing. Painting here displayed had no plan, just came up all by itself, and it is a depiction of the hole I feel in the middle of my being. Funny, I am not lonely. Just kind of lost. Ian, my shrink, thinks I have misplaced my power. Did I ever have any?
Struggling to return to center, which seems a long way away at the moment. Antidepressant has ceased its side-effect mode, now is up to snuff and the cowwoman is feeling okay. Different, but okay. Meanwhile, life has been sort of like this painting, chaotic. Punkin got a foxtail in his tear duct, had to be sedated to get it removed. It was 1 1/2 inches long. Don't know how he does it, but if there is trouble, Punk will find it. Cowwoman had a tooth pulled yesterday. Ouch. And I ordered another humane mousetrap to replace the one I wore out after catching 13 mice in it, and strangely, caught 7 mice in the little cubes that have sat there for months. Dogs caught one in the wastepaper basket under the computer desk, too. That brings total to 23 so far. We have been a regular mouse motel here in the little yellow house. Now looking for strong body to move the stove so I can clean under it. Just hoping that is all of those little suckers. Cute, dirty little suckers. So, taking this painting to therapy tomorrow, part of a chronology of expression for the past year. Kind of interesting, really. Looking for health in the midst of this turmoil. It's in there. Somewhere.