I repeat, at the end of the day. At the end I wonder, like everyone else, what does it mean to have lived this day. One stroke of paint, one sentence of words, ( if you can call it that ), several pages of Molloy, several pages of The Decameron ( I love the Middle Ages, don’t know where it comes from ), an accomplished drawing. The notification of a fly, a slow one, but quick enough. I am using the color beige on almost every painting, after starting with other colors like viridian green, sap green, cobalt blue and vermillion, cadmium yellow hue and warm gray.
I just made a work of art in one minute with some water paint, pencil and crayon: the tree and its shadow at the R.V. Kade. The grass is cadmium yellow hue, the shadow is at the wrong side of the tree. It’s amazing how nature works. Last night I was called a ‘he’ in a piece about my work. I liked it. Another reader told the writer that I am a ‘she’. Such a pity. Stop. I keep my nails short.
When my sister-in-law comes to visit us and sleep over, she brings her own power-strip. To empower all of her devices at once. Just before she goes to sleep.
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