It was just an ordinary day. Well, ordinary for me I suppose is a little different than anyone else. I wake up. I workout in the exercise room. I'm not really fit, but I stay in some semblance of in shape. I was told by a therapist once it reduces stress. I took a nice long shower in my antique tub. It actually has the clawed feet and was a real mess when I bought this place. But like the rest of it a lot of love and time and it's actually kind of nice now. I climbed up to the little room on the third floor. To be completely honest I'm not sure what this room was originally for. The four walls are all glass, and it's only about a ten by ten space. I use it for my meditation room. There is a huge blue/violet velvet pillow I sit on. Maybe it's just huge to me I'm only 5'2". It takes me a good solid half hour of meditation daily. I's still grateful that Dr. Andres had taught me how to "clean out" my "aura". Basically I just let my walls down for a while to cycle out the energies I pick up. Then I build my walls back up. It's more of a bubble really, curving seamlessly over under and around me. If I reach out it moves with me, but mostly it's right over my skin like my clothing. Out here by myself, it only takes a little bit and I can skip it some days. When people come by or I have to stop by the city for something. That's the day it takes longer. My parents visited a few days ago, but a few days alone and I feel good as new. Just a little lonely, maybe.
It was nice so i had breakfast on the back porch. I worked in the flower beds and the vegi garden, but the soil is so nice here it barely takes any effort to get the little gardens to grow. Which is good as my green thumb is well maybe not too green. I opened the windows to my studio. I had just had a show last week. Martin was amazed that I still had a few works in progress. He couldn't believe that I was working on another set already. Maybe he doesn't realize there's not a huge amount to do out here. Don't get me wrong I keep busy. There's house upkeep and occasionally repairs or replacements. I keep my car clean, even though I seldom drive it. I go for walks or a run outside sometimes. Then of course I read, get online, watch movies. You know normal stuff. Hell I even get on facebook. I'm still "friends" with the girls from high school. My address is fake, cause I don't want them actually visiting. There was a five year reunion. Some of the girls really wanted to see me. I told them I was over seas. Which was a lie. I don't know if I could actually make it through an airport. Let alone sit between two people for hours at a time. They ask what I do. I tell them I'm into buying and selling online. They don't press. They don't need to know I'm the new growing artist known only as Ink. I don't want them selling that secret and people wanting to see me, wanting to talk to me, wanting to meet me. No, I can't deal with all that. That's what Martin, my agent is for. But yeah for the most part I do normal things. Hell. There's usually a movie playing in the background. It can get awfully quiet out here on my own.
I spent most of the afternoon in an undershirt already paint stained, and a bad pair of yoga pants, also paint stained. It's a girl with dark hair sitting in a bed. I'm just getting the details and texture of her antique style night dress painted in. Her pale arm will reach weakly but with conviction to the window, which casts the only light onto her and the rich but dark sheets of her bed. Outside will be the impression of a beautiful lively spring day, golden and glistening through the window. Her face will be entranced by the world she can only view from the window of her bed, but one she believes she can never touch. I think I might call it "Out There." I need to figure out what color I want the drapes in the picture to be still. Really, it's not even half finished. There is a picture you can see from my seat in front of the canvas that you cannot fee from the door. It 's above the door frame, in a simple but worn frame. It's my parents and me. I think it was a neighborhood picnic. I'm about 13 or 14, still wearing jeans and a shirt with long sheer sleeves in the summer. My mom is wearing a sleeveless short dress as she hugs me and we are both laughing. My father has an arm around us both with a rare grin on his face. It seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was. It helps me put something into my art. No matter how well I paint, no matter how good I get. I don't think I will ever make a painting that makes someone feel the way that one little photograph makes me feel. It makes me so incredibly happy, and yet so deeply sad at the same time. I've been painting for hours. Morning has turned to early afternoon. I grabbed a cloth and started to wipe off my hands when I heard a car on my gravel drive. My heart jumped to my throat, and I listen more closely to make sure that it was a car that I heard. "Oh shit!" I mutter to no one. It was definitively a car on the drive. I started to close the windows.
