Wherein our protagonist contemplates her emotional universe . . .

I’ve been painting today.  Oh frabjous joy!  I finished the one that had been haunting my easel for the last several months, then started another one that I quickly came to loathe.  I took it down because it annoyed me, and I can already hear my internal creative mentor tsk-tsking me in my head.  She’s like an attachment to my superego.  I succumbed to the inner critic, I wanted something bold and audacious and ended up with a giant page of fireworks turning into flowers or flowers turning into fireworks, or possibly neither.  It wasn’t going anywhere; it had all the psychic energy of a bouquet of turds.

Now what?

Start another painting?  Like I have a choice.  Gotta kill to get crimson on this palette knife.  Etc.  Yes, I’ve been listening to Knopfler again.  I seem to be traveling in an endless loop between Get Lucky, Kill to Get Crimson, and Sailing to Philadelphia. The only non-Knopfler album I’ve been listening to lately is The Swell Season’s Strict Joy.  Just turned that on again.  Can’t not love that crazy Irishman, Glen Hansard.  It’s the intensity thing; gets me every time.  Also used to get me into a lot of trouble.  I shan’t elaborate here, either.

Some other braver time, thinks I.


About creat1ve11

psychotherapist by trade, writer and artist by temperament, over 50 and not fighting it, love the idea of snorting milk through my nose, but have never actually done it
This entry was posted in and everything, art, creativity, life, music, pain, rants, Reflecting, relationships, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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