A number of truths

life is good, and i continue to have feelings

I really want to write. I find myself self-censoring, remembering who is and isn’t subscribed. I started another Substack where I write about my creative life, and it’s a little more matter of fact and not quite as existential, but it seems I have just created another compartment to fit myself neatly into. And I’m not sure what’s personal enough to write about, or what may in fact be too personal to write about.

I don’t want to hang out these days. I’m not feeling particularly like a grumpy old hermit, but I just don’t really want to hang out. This is not personal. I would just rather be in my art space, or my room-sanctuary, or watching the far away birds flying.

I’m attempting to exist in the world more. You know, exhibiting, teaching, things like that. It’s good - it gives me access to people in a way that feels inspiring and energizing rather than quiet in a group with nothing much to say. I don’t want to give anyone any updates on my life.

My friendships aren’t the same as they used to be. I feel resentful that people get access to me because I share parts of myself online, and this is my own doing. I say I do it because I have to, but I don’t have to do anything. The way people exist online has changed. It’s also like everything was written by chatGPT, what with all these em dashes and ‘quiet becomings’. I would like to go underground in the most alive way possible.

I’m wondering about the resentment, actually. I’d like not to feel it, but there it is. I’ve been very low maintenance all my life. I think I am done with attempting to be that.

I’m painting, and there is agitation, there’s anger. There is acceptance of life as it is and awareness of life as it could be.

I’m looking out at the sky this evening, and wondering what I want. I’m looking at the birds. I tell myself I want more sky and more birds. Here I am, looking at the sky and the birds and I think - what could I possibly want that I don’t have access to in this very moment?

Maybe I’m not being imaginative enough. That’s been the narrative.

I’m making tea. I do all the usual things. Filtered water to boil, three teaspoons of tea, cardamom, sugar. All of a sudden, I decide to slow my pace down by about three notches, because why ever not. Slowly pour the sugar. Slowly put the spoon down, listen for the clink. Slowly walk to the door, slowly turn the knob, watch the door shut behind me. The clouds look like soft little pretzels.

Something is changing, it always is. Sometimes I am in the midst and I can’t name it, I can’t understand it. It’s like having dreams, and turning to the Internet to try and understand. I don’t think I want to try and understand. Dreams speak a different language, not necessarily a mind language.

Someone asked what the point of all these paintings is.

I find myself thinking about this comment. What, indeed, is the point of all these paintings?

I look at the one with the rocks next to the balcony door, my favourite, and the sparrows above my desk, and the self-portrait from six years ago, and the series of clouds to my right. This is my life, is what it is. Not the painting itself necessarily. But whatever pours out is what pours out. It’s here and it’s a reminder that I exist and that I have existed.

I’m not sure who that matters to. But I am a visual person. It matters to me.