Painting and Poetry And Some Blue On My Hand

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I found myself driven toward the next work one day, have some words to fit in my hands and some more in a folder, well, a digital one. Music sends me where I’ve already started out to go and accompanies me there, making it even more real and spellbinding.

I made a playlist for these writings, and I listened to that playlist when I painted too, so the paint might be like words and form a poem, too. It was so refreshingly different to paint now with my mind this way, how my mind is okay with something unfinished now, and how I am more aware of dipping brushes in water and drying them, and rinsing them fully afterwards.

It is such a subtle sensation to move the brush over the canvas, all sight, sound, and feeling in one. I had some blue on my hand to wash off; it didn’t rinse away so easily, like the painting making art of me, how I\’ve wished to be.

I wished to paint again today, but I will cook dinner soon, and the hot water heater was due to be replaced at home, and so the plumber was here replacing it, and the water was turned off a good part of the day, so no water for rinsing brushes. I thought I might feel strange at this point to paint with someone there, like he might’ve made a joke about me painting that I didn’t find funny, but likely someday. And there is tomorrow and it is almost night now. And there are new words in that folder I have yet to look at today. I will read them aloud in this room when no one is listening.