The salt in my lungs, I am left wanting. It is the paint peeling I need to fix on my washroom. It is the in the pink sound of an ice cub being razor shaved. Can’t get it out of all the parts and pieces of my mind.
When a true wave hits you in the face and flicks you at the beach you’re kind of done with anything ever stopping you from your life goals. You stand up, wipe your eyes and swim around the big wave to reach what you need or go over or under.
I see now I need to treat fear made by social media the same way. I need to get stronger about swimming past it. I’m not perceptive to the algorithms and to be honest I want the sales from it not to be famous for them for the speck starlight they give you. I get older and remember Myspace fondly but I recall it didn’t equal out to a hill of beans when it died.
Deep and true and fearful. The honest parts of me know the outcome is no bigger than a grain of sand to the world but I am a grain of sand so it is my world. In search of my next masterpiece and I do not know anything to begin and build a new universe with.
Wishing wells of all the parts that made me grow into the creative heartbeat. Cocoa butter for the tips and tops of feet and elbows to pull me back to the first time I ever lifted a brush as a youth. Whine and beer to remind my self that I can be limitless as I slow and speed up time; traveling on and bending space with colors.
Where ever I go the art is playing in the background; in the corners of my eyes. Forever a trickster to steal me from all other tasks. Making and making and making.
I don’t know sometimes, how I found my path. It was always mine, I guess. No one gave it to me. I didn’t take it and yet it was maybe my birthright? That word feels weird to me. I have never felt that anything was really mine until my 30’s. The world is the owner and we are but mere space holders in service to it.
This art book will be grand. I will make and grow deep in the pages and I want each every one of you to feel the strokes and trace the lines with your eyes. I do this in service to you and my self because we live these hard lives for something warm on the inside.
a million dots. I want to get a tattoo gun so I can make one million dots on a face in every painting. I want universes around eyes. To work huge is the occupation of the galaxy of details. No one hand makes without deep lacunas of agony in your bones. The silly bits are that the pain is a trophy of all the beauty you give to the art. To be a doner of such bloom is an honor and a gift of pure love.
I always find my words in these podcasts. I’m so quiet in a lot of life. I love to paint in my head rather than slow down and be a part of everything. I must look crazy to most people but it makes me happy. I figure the idea is to find what makes you so happy.
I hope this finds you well and the photos are from this week in my studio. I loved this week’s end.
In this podcast: my fun painter madness comes to a lovely and polite podcast (I hope), our art adventures, strange but helpful books, trying to be a better person to my self, feeling proud and hopeful. Plus: all the stuff I’ve been doing lately…like painting and self-help work.
Things I’m dig
∆ Yoga in the morning or tea
∆ Frannerd videos
∆ Started to listen to again Celia Cruz
∆ Thinking about all the great advice I have been given this week
On my reading/watch list:
Side Hustle (from idea to income in 27 days)
Little Boxes on Netflix