A bit of a problem today with one friend Who insists and elaborates how my life Could so improve, As if my saying no only proves she is correct, If only I would think as does she. Somedays just thinking Is so hard.
A good day painting outside near the studio Friends nearby doing what they like to do. I enjoyed that. Not so much the what I should do’s. I don’t know, but frankly, no one else has The answer either.
Took out your frames today, started finishing them. They line my studio wall, painted and gilded Ready to wax. Took them out, thought of your hands While I worked on them, missing your deft Touch, now gone. I’ll frame them dear to keep long as I will live. I’ll see you in them and touch them as if you. It storms tonight.
Really hate the pool, shocked today Trying to get it in shape. Bitten by the cur while feeding it, Spent the afternoon into evening at the studio Watching others go about their time off As I realize How much I am alone outside, ever looking in. Was even as a kid and then you took me in and We found belonging.
A friend talked me halfway home. A sweet pleasure, as is now knowing others Do remember us. Hate that pool but love seeing friends use it, Home late afternoon to join the pool party And settle down. Hotdogs and hamburgers and chicken Grilled at their house later, so tasty, Remember our fathers.
It is a long drive back to where we lived When one is not sure the trip will be good. I go anyways. In the late afternoon follow a familiar road To see a young woman married on this farm along the river bank. To greet folks not seen for too long and find We are both remembered. May these two find Our same beauty.
Up early, meet a new friend and go hunting, Hoping for skipjacks in Deale, looking to photo. We found three. And I liked watching him talk to folks, Finding who had boats around in that way Men have together. Listening to his stories, spending a few hours Differently. I would like to continue exploring like Men always have.
Right now I prefer painting alone In this new studio, turning on the music Painting to that, And singing to myself, because it is easier to do Than to let my studio-mate do on her own And keep shut Unless asked. It has been several decades since I so shared studio space with another. Where ever is Deanna Foster now?
First opening in the new shop No sales, but people did come through for The Second Saturday Art Stroll. Indeed, some came specifically To see us and the response online has been good Still, no sales. And although there were no sales, There was interest and conversation, Which is good.
Am feeling rushed this days and pinned, The meds don’t help and I am far behind But crying less. It helps, knowing it is not all me, helps, But part is, the part I have not addressed. Needing a crutch.
These handful of days, I cry, often, feeling As adrift as those first days without you - no better Now, than then. I cry, often, feeling bereft and alone. Well, I am. Only lately it cuts so deep. I have laid your knife hard Into my wrist, Not yet deep enough, just not the time. So, I cry often, I cry, I cry, and as ever, no longer Does anyone hear.
Swing today between what is important This shop or my thunder scared dog This shop or My dying cat? Easy what wins. Drove through rain to where those beings I care for. Surrounded by them, watching, finally A Triple Crown. Called Joel because, Couldn’t call you.
Painted in the Chincoteague studio today. I miss my dogs underfoot. I miss the life We all had. Without them just underscores what I am Now, a person alone, who has only herself To rely on. Which is not a bad thing and even admirable, But I am not that yet, neither reliable to myself Or anyone else. However I consider all this, I should include the meds, which are known For misaligning moods. I am prone to stillness, to melancholy Lately these dip deeper. I am left snared In despondency, crying.
Much of this season I am On my own and, the down days Outnumber the good. Perhaps it is true, we are not put here Solely to be happy, that even contentment Will not last. These may be true, but I am willing, however Mired and pinned I feel, even still, to flail Against this hopelessness.
And then comes along days grayed, Masked past simple contentment Choked with fears For life gone, for emptiness ahead, For moments filled with single tears. Grief for days Past, futures gone, and present asks, Finally, feel only the aches of Being fully alone.
A wonderful, rainy day, gray and enclosing. I go no where but to my easel and work Out a problem. Visit with dearest friends through phone And feel connected afar and connected Within my soul. Not always an easy place to reach And so more treasured when achieved, However fleetingly so.
By the end of the day, no news is good. Evidently I remain HCV free, however at Odds I feel. So I putz through this day doing small things That anchor me to the ground here and inside To my soul. None of it large or important, just quiet And settling to my psyche which these days Teeters on edge.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.
I will write in red, for my dear, love; who never saw red, not in ink, not in ire.
In 2010, the cold went beyond ten decades, was a century mark of hard winter through the mid-atlantic. For one small household banked by an Eastern Shore river this winter was epochal.
