I am always thinking about doing art. For someone who thinks about it so much, I am agitated I don’t do it more. I suppose it’s because I want the conditions to be just right and I also want to do easier things like read. It’s so easy to read.
Saturday, I made so much art. I assembled and photographed a bunch of new Sidewalk Faces. Cute ones! I need some cute ones. Saturday night I did my abstract marker drawings. Heaven! I was in that lovely place: adventure, excitement, danger, knowledge.
So what happened Sunday? Good and bad. I took my camera to Runyon Canyon with the dogs and made several faces. Alright! When I came home, the afternoon was all clear for drawing. Instead, I ordered a takeout sandwich, scarfed it, lay down on my bed with a book, read 45 minutes while consciousness drained away and napped until almost evening. Husband woke me up with a question about dinner. It’s my turn. Agh! I started reading again to wake up, I hate napping! Then at 5:45 pm, a pretty late start, I get my ass into the kitchen and throw down a coconut curry.
A decent evening ensued but what happened to my plans? Why didn’t I do what I was telling myself I wanted to do the most?
P.S. This essay, like the 2nd half of yesterday, didn’t go at all according to plan. I thought I was going to write about how it feels to be doing art, not how it feels to not be doing it.
Maybe later. Always good to have a topic to explore later.