Not since 2012 have I made fewer that 8 new pieces in a month… hope this will be coming to to an end.
Like, I shouldn’t complain. It’s only sent me to ER once. Just makes walking… (and sitting)… kinda unpleasant .
Yeah, I’ve seen Youtubes of 85 year olds who work out 7 hours a day with body builder bodies… but who the fuck want’s to work out 7 hours a day! Jebus Fuck a Duck dudes! Get a LIFE!
For 79… I remind myself every day, how lucky I am, to be in the condition I am (never forgetting that I can lose all that in a minute)… but for now…
I can walk 10 miles in a day–even with the sciatica (though I’d rather catch a bus). I cook my own meals–no Moms Meals delivery pre-Nursing home fare– I can remember where I put my fucking keys hours or days after –IF I WAS AWARE of what I was doing at the time and not fumbling with packages and trying to get in the fucking door!
I can code switch from Sam Johnson Formal English, to Standard (the dialect of Power), to much preferred mixed demotic … and mostly know which is most appropriate, though I care fucking less…. since my mother is long gone and can’t hear me.
This is what it means to going on 80 for me.
17×22 oil on Canvas. I’m happy with nothing. Nothing but texture. Layers. Subtle tonal and chromatic transitions. Utterly meaningless. There’s anger in this, in why I do this. Angry–and happy knowing you won’t find anything here you might already be looking for…nothing beyond what your eye sees.