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.
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.