Aug 29, 2022, Mon — Cannot describe the inner certitude of doing art for my living. O wild parsnip, being in the studio and creating a painting of you, where before there was none, touches my core. Makes every cell swoon.
It’s weird how I almost don’t feel like doing anything else in life other than painting. It’s addicting… or something? That sounds derogatory, but this doesn’t feel negative. It feels like the most important thing I can be doing, and all the rest is just junk. Yes, I need to eat, and I need to exercise, and I would love to spend more time in nature (big time), which requires a friend, or a dude, or a boyfriend, or a husband (that sure went uprank, fast!), who is willing and who doesn’t talk too awful much and who will let me take a nap, or swim nude in even the smallest swimming hole.
Sometimes the more intimate those pools, the more I MUST immerse in them! And who will go with me during golden hour. And stay as long as I want. Someone who willingly joins the adventure. Who wants it as much as I do.
Oh, and I would love that person for the intimacy bonus, as well. I mean, duh. But other than that… oh, wait, I still want punctuated time with my good friends. Never can go without that! And with my kids. Time to laugh and lift each other. Oh, and prayer time (although if I’m in Nature, those will combine). And sleep. And books. After that… I need nothing! Just a studio, a kitchen, and a good bed.
If I find that partner, husband, boyfriend (I mean, when!), there will be no yard work happening.
O wild parsnip, I’m glad you understand me.