Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Monday, December 31, 2012
A bird for the new year...
I hadn't painted in so long, I doubted my ability to do it. Old paintings looked so very complicated, like, how the hell did I do THAT? So I chose my favorite subject, tiny bird, and sort of diddled for a few moments. This is an arctic bird, really tiny. Imagine, little things like this living in that hellishly cold place. HP has such interesting ideas. So, goodbye 2012, year of the anti-depressant, year of therapy, 23rd year of sobriety. I have cut back, leaving behind one sponsee that wasn't working out for me, and ending a service commitment. Now committed to healing, which is a longer process now that I am so very, very old. I find it hard to get excited about very much at this age, though my recent automobile drama kind of tweaked me for a while. I bent a wheel hitting a curb, in Oakland, land of the most convoluted freeways in the known universe, in the dark, in the rain, and thought, after a perusal, that all was fine. So I drove home, while the shocks were ever so merrily eating my front tire. The dogs were with me, it poured in Biblical proportions, and we arrived home, all safe and with a minimum of fuss, considering. It wasn't until I looked at it the next day that I noticed that, instead of a 90 degree angle with the ground, the wheel was canted at about 85 degrees. That looked expensive. After a lot of logistics, and about $1,200 it is fixed. I think that HP does not think I can handle money, since it just seems to melt away. Sigh. Could have been much worse. Grateful, and planning on paying much better attention. In the New Year.