Sat in the front window of my favorite coffee shop today watching the rain and trying to come up with a concrete idea that will absorb all of these butterfly rumblings in my head. I’m starting on two paintings today. One not too big and one not too small. I was looking over my sketchbooks for a jumping point and came across an entry from spring of last year that I wrote on a day much like today while sitting in this same spot. I did a sketch of Broad and people were rushing around to avoid the weather. One person I remember clearly was a mammoth of a man under a child sized Mickey Mouse umbrella running across the street to wait under an awning. It’s strange.

It’s mostly over! For the past couple of weeks I’ve been volunteering on a committee to organize an art sale to benefit the Putnam County Hurricane Relief Fund to help rebuild a town affected by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and today concluded the grunt work. Soliciting has never been my strong point even if it’s for a good cause. We had the opening reception of Art in Action this afternoon and quite a bit was sold. I enjoyed the schmoozing with other artists and Jason was nice enough to come hang out. Now that this is over, I start my stint as publicity manager of the Art Prowl which will be in November and I’ll also be doing general publicity for the ART organization. I’m excited.

So yesterday morning Jason left to have dinner with his friend Patrick from Nashvegas. I couldn’t sleep any longer so I got up and went to the shop. While I was there reading the comics, the Lady Who Never Opens Her Store so ancient people from out of town come in at least once a week to say, “Is she ever open? Do you have a phone book?” came up to me and told me about how she was making a present for her husband, and would I be able to help her by doing the finishing touches.

The first thing she asked was if I painted with oils. Thirty seconds later I found out that question has nothing to do with anything else she is going to say but that’s okay because she likes my paintings and thinks I should be rolling in the money because I’m so talented. Her words. I’ll accept them. Anywho, the project she is working on is a paint-by-number lighthouse. She wants me to “make it fade back a little.” Everytime she says this she waves her hands side to side. I nod as she explains what she means for a couple of minutes because my brain trying to process if that is really what is being said and how I should respond. I’ve been in unusual “I would like to commission you to-” situations before and usually respond with, “Wow, that sounds interesting but that’s not my specialty.”

Back to the hand waving, “Do you think you could do that? Make it fade some?” After weighing the options frantically back in forth in my head, and the main repeating thought being, “O Father in Heaven. I can’t believe someone wants me to do a paint-by-number.” I find myself saying yes. Yes. I can.

ARRRGGGGGHH. I am officially a starving artist but she is a very nice person. Patrick pointed out that even Faulkner had to go to Hollywood to write screenplays because he needed the additional income, but I’m no Faulkner and Hollywood screenplays are a ways above paint-by-number, and I’m sure he was much better compensated. To comfort myself I went out and bought Sarah Vowell’s newest offering and made myself the best breakfast ever.

One of my next paintings will be a nude of my true love holding a bottle of whiskey and wearing only a fedora. And cowboy boots. Maybe. Be afraid because he came up with this one himself. Except for the boots. Those are mine.

I just made a pan of brownies which is a sure sign of procrastination from painting. I was supposed to be sketching out a composition tonight so I could start the imprimatura tomorrow. When I finish writing this, yet another logical step of avoidance, I will start the process of self loathing which will lead to sleep deprivation due to the abusive yammering of my ever so loquacious inner voice.

Tomorrow I will wake-up inspired and motivated and full of passion, and I will create Great and Amazing works of Beauty. But only after I make a rhubarb pie. Mmmmm. Pie!

Nummer een
I just finished reading two mysteries by Elizabeth Peters. They were not that spectacular but were entertaining enough for those of us who went to public school. My grammar and punctuation are also good enough for those who went to public school.

Nummer twee
Recently in my typically poo safe yard, I stepped in dog poo with my bare feet and slid while going to get the mail. Instead of running immediately to wash it off, I just kept saying ‘ooh, ooh, ooh!’ and went ahead and got the mail. Then while playing croquet with my family, I had one of many bad moments. In my humiliated state of being, I leaned my head onto my sisters shoulder to hide and to my astonishment I discovered a bird had done a little poo on her back. The moral of the story is don’t discover poo by sticking your forehead or your foot in it. The end.

Nummer drie
The wee little Bunny has been seen living with the snails in the slum area of the yard since his displacement and has had to resort to stealing more out of the garden than charity allows. Was last seen Monday morning on the run after being caught at the cucumber plant. I believe that he is the leader of a gang intent on eating and killing everything I planted. I take back everything nice I said about it before.

Nummer vier
Inventory of what I have put in the ground/pots in the past month or so
rosemary, thyme, dwarf basil, sweet basil, chives (mostly unsuccessful), coleus (many were eaten) snapdragon, impatients, alyssum (pretty for a couple weeks and is now a useless hardy small green blob of a plant), something blue and happy, geranium (from J’s Mom), cucumber (hanging in there after being attacked by rabbit), sweet 100 tomato, bradley tomato, yellow squash, green pepper, green onions, rosemary, zuccini (pecked to death by birds), begonias (present from Mom), marigolds (I didn’t think anything ate stinky marigolds but oh, how wrong I was), some green and white leafed thing, a grass thing that’s supposed to have yellow flowers in fall and other flower stuff.

nummer vijf
Been refining my plans for a new series for painting today. It’s all about me because I’m so in love with myself. I’m the best. Yup. The new artist statement is going to be all about how wonderful I am and how no one will ever be able to love me as much as me because I am my best lover. But I’ll leave my options open in case something better comes along but that’s not likely. I always have good conversations with myself and give myself good advice. I love my hairy toes and nostrils, and to top it off, I have excellent taste in elastic waist pants. You get the picture. I’m awesome.

option
n 1: one of a number of things from which only one can be chosen; “what option did I have?”; “there is no other alternative”; “my only choice is to refuse” 2: the act of choosing or selecting; “your choice of women was unfortunate”; “you can take your pick”

Lost my keys this morning and was super late to work.
Screamed when my first customer said hello cause I was in a frantic rush and didn’t know the doors were unlocked.
I have no money for rent.
I have no money for groceries.
Got a call that I missed a potential patron who saw my interview in Explore because I didn’t get my show up yesterday and then then later found out he tried to check out my website and it’s not updated with the portraits and he is not from Cookeville and hopefully he will come back. More evidence of laziness and why I should be kicked.
Then I sprayed myself with half a gallon of gasoline which was worth $1.03.
Had to bathe myself and my clothes three times and the house still stinks.
Hit my head on the corner of the car door.
Then I lost my hammer.
Looked for 37 minutes before I gave up and put the frame on the painting of Mary with a sledge. That was loads of fun. Grumpy woman with raw power.
Had to buy a new hammer.
Argued with a woman over one of my portraits as I was hanging my show in the ever so prestigious Hallway Gallery.
Conversation went something like this.
“These all look so good. Is there a painting of you here?”
“Yes, it’s that one over there.”
“That’s not you.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“But you don’t look that bad.”
“Thank you.”

What was I thinking by saying thank you? I do that all the time. Saying thank you after a quasi insult. Example. “I had no idea you could paint well.” I get that one a lot. What they mean is that the abstracts I did before wasn’t real painting because a third grader could do that, yeah? Am I right. I think I’m going to change the title of the self portrait to ‘This Isn’t Me. Really.’ Why do people think you have to look nice and pretty all the time. Most of the time I’m messy, sleepy and have puffy eyes, frizzy hair and zits galore. What’s wrong with portraying that?
It’s hours after the gasoline fetish fest and my house still stinks.
And the grass in my lawn is up to my knees. Small children wander into the yard and are never seen again. Was going to mow the lawn today. But the mower’s pull string is screwed.
And we have dirty dishes and books and papers and boxes and gasoline and bits of tomato and potatoes and empty coffee cups and sharp pointy objects strewn around the house.
Yick.