I’m a bundle of neurotic energy today, perhaps not surprisingly. (It beats being a bundle of necrotic energy, I suppose.) I’ve set up the appointment to apply for the loan, gathered the paperwork, and in an hour or so, have to go inform my landlady that we are movin’ on. This leaves me with nothing else to do today but make art.
Now, I like making art. It’s the best job in the world, so far as I’m concerned. But it requires a certain amount of concentration, and mine is completely shot, as I ricochet back and forth between disbelief and terror and excitement like a shuttlecock with anxiety issues.
So I paint a few dabs on the painting in front of me, and then I wander around the living room muttering to myself, and then I paint another few dabs, and then I stand in front of the window and watch the birds (nuthatches and downy woodpeckers, with occasional red-bellied woodpecker incursions) chip away at the latest block of suet, and then I paint another few dabs.
I have to paint. My productivity is gonna tank in the next coupla weeks, and if I want to eat next month, I’ll need to make art while the makin’ is good. But I’m still wandering around twitching, my muse is more interested in paint swatches and where to plant the foxglove than listening to me explain the ramifications of “Will Art For Food,” and OH MY GOD, I’m buyin’ a house…