Interesting day. Art that I’m happy with and some good photos.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I spent most of the day quietly contemplating some things my beloved has said recently, and some useful perspective offered by my therapist – and my own past writing. Sometimes having memory issues is almost comical, it’s often seriously frustrating, but in this instance it’s actually sort of useful. I can go back and look at my own experience of life, and take my own advice. 😆 I chuckle to myself, although I’m quite serious.
Good day of painting. Strange day of random human stuff. A drunken man raising hell by a nearby restaurant. He punched a woman in the face just a few steps from the hotel. The police were called. Nothing much came of it and the man along with the woman he’d struck retreated to their hotel room. There’s a strange woman on the second floor with a small pack of agitated tiny dogs on perpetually tangled leashes. They yap a lot. In the early morning, when I stepped out for a good quality coffee, the elevator was filled with fishermen and a very strange uncomfortable vibe. I ignored all of it, and kept to myself. I painted, and when I wasn’t painting, I was thinking about painting, and moving colors around in my paint boxes thoughtfully.
Later a bite to eat. Cold fried chicken. It was fine. I crashed pretty early, napped, and woke in time to watch the moon set. Nice interlude.
I catch myself yawning. Tomorrow I’ll head home. I miss my Traveling Partner, and I miss my studio! My beloved is right though; it isn’t so easy to do this kind of thing in the winter. I take a deep breath of the sea air. The last bonfire on the beach has gone out. The scent of wood smoke is dissipating.
I sit star gazing awhile after the moon sets. I think I’m seeing Antares, maybe? I sigh quietly and yawn. Beginning again can wait for the morning. I get a drink of cold water and head back to bed.
Lovely start to the day, today. Coffee with my beloved Traveling Partner before I headed to the trail to get a walk in before work.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I walked in the predawn darkness contentedly, on the edge of humming a little tune, but I can’t quite find the melody. I smile and keep walking. I’m okay for nearly all values of “okay”, and better than that for many more. In a word, in this moment I am content and happy. I walked along enjoying it without asking why. Doesn’t matter why.
I think about the woman I was in 1995. Why ’95? That was the year I walked away from a nightmare, and the year I lived alone for the first time, fully independently. It was a peculiar transformation and it took me awhile to catch up with myself. I spent that year beginning the search for the woman I wanted most to be. It’s taken a long g’damned time to get from there to here. By the time I reach my halfway point (on this walk), I’ve mentally drafted a letter I wish I could send back in time to that earlier version of me.
Continuity of memory is strange. It tends to suggest I am that woman I was then. I doubt that’s really true. She was reckless. Irresponsible. Angry (so very angry). She was prone to disrespecting boundaries. She had no clear sense of purpose, and her goal setting was shortsighted and exceedingly practical. Her path was not yet her own choosing. Shared memory connects me to her, but I am not that woman I once was. Probably a good thing, actually; she was headed for destruction.
Daybreak begins. The starry night sky gives way to shades of gray.
She could have done better, or been a better person. I guess so can I, even now. I sit with that for a little while. Later today, therapy, and a manicure. It is a Friday. I think about the weekend ahead. I think about beginnings and I think about love.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. A new beginning starts right here. A chance to be my best self, a better partner, a better friend. I like beginning again. Each day is a new experience, a new chance to choose and to do better… a new opportunity to love and to walk my path. It’s enough.
I breathe the autumn air deeply. It’s already time to walk on, and begin again.
I woke with a certain feeling clinging to me as I pulled myself free of my dreams to face a new day.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I noticed the pain in my hands as I woke. Then the neuralgia in my face. I snarled silently at Thursday morning, thinking to myself “so it’s going to be like that, is it?”, as I dressed.
As I left the house, I stared at the starry sky with wonder. It still fills me with awe and delight. I recognize Orion overhead and smile; that was the first constellation I learned to recognize. The starry night sky inspires me.
I walk the familiar trail thinking about art, starry night skies, new moments, and inspiration. Nice morning for it. It’s dark but not cold. We haven’t yet had our first frost. That’s not strange here, only an observation. I pause on the trail at a spot with a particularly good view of the night sky, a little vexed by the pointlessly bright lights of the nearby construction site. I star gaze for a few minutes, rubbing my aching hands and enjoying the view before walking on.
I spent some time in the studio after work yesterday. I’m grateful that I could, and that I have dedicated space for creative work. That is an incredible luxury and I am fortunate.
“The Drain”, soft pastels, 2026
At my halfway point, I indulge myself with a long look at a picture of the piece I painted yesterday. It evokes something for me that I can’t quite name. I’m not entirely clear whether the art flows from the emotion…or creates it. At least, that is the case with this one. I felt pulled into the studio yesterday, as if drawn towards a painting not yet conceived, and walked out with a sense of something certain and final. Completed work, yes, and also as if I’d said something I didn’t have words for.
… What is that emotion called..?
I sigh and stuff my phone back into my pocket. I let my eyes readjust to the darkness. I rub my hands – more specifically my thumbs, where the newest arthritis has turned up. It seems likely that over time, perhaps quite slowly, it will become progressively more difficult to paint, as it becomes more difficult to hold pastels or brushes comfortably. I sit with the awareness awhile, not picking at it, not trying to wish it away or argue with it, simply aware, observing the sensation of pain and feeling the poignant hint of sorrow and maybe future disappointment. No reason to drag all that into this moment from a future that hasn’t yet occurred. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and let the moment pass.
I meditate under the stars. The morning here is peaceful. For the moment, that is enough.
I catch myself squirming and twisting slowly, trying to find physical comfort. Yes, the arthritis is sometimes an absolute motherfucker to deal with, but…it could be worse. So much worse. I stretch and adjust my seated position and my posture. I silently acknowledge to myself that it’s the best I can do for the moment, and take my morning medication. That will help, too.
I write a bit, and watch the sky slowly begin to lighten. I love seeing the various gradual changes as night becomes day. Another sigh. I get to my feet. May as well begin again.
It’s a foggy morning. On the other side of a short list of errands, I’ll head to the coast for a few days for some solitary time, painting. I’m eager, but not anxious. There’s no hurry. I planned with care and stayed mindful of my current capabilities and limitations when I did so.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I’m sitting at a favorite trailhead, waiting for the gate to open. A short walk will be enough this morning. I want to leave myself enough energy at the other end of the day to easily enjoy hanging out with the ghosts of Claude (Monet), Vincent (Van Gogh), and Peter (Max). I’ve already got my pastels packed up, ready to load into the car.
… Definitely eager…
When the time came to end the work week and pull my head out of the spreadsheets and tool portals, yesterday, I found it difficult. I’m definitely for sure over that, already! My thoughts now are of colors, hues, shades, tones, and the challenges of bringing light into pigment, and giving life to an image on paper. I am expanding into the sense of self that feels the most me. It’s comfortable and familiar, and natural; there’s no need to mask anything or operate from some pretense of whatever is defined as properly professional this year, for this or that industry. It may take hours to really sink in, that the next three days are wholly about where inspiration might take me. This is my time.
I breathe, exhale, relax. Some things don’t change. Some practices have value no matter what may be on the calendar. Meditation. Writing in the morning. Enjoying a pleasant walk. We become what we practice. Taking myself to some other physical place to paint doesn’t change what I need to do to care for myself, manage symptoms, and preserve my emotional resilience. I reflect on the successes and failures of various practices over the years. They don’t all work out, and there’s been some trial and error to “finding my way”.
… Shit… I already miss my Traveling Partner and I’m not even gone yet! 😆 Well, I knew that would be a thing. I adore him. We’re deeply connected. Our lives are intertwined. I feel obvious “separation anxiety” when we’re apart – but there is value in the reminder not to take love for granted. We get the benefit of perspective from a chance to miss each other, and reconnect more deeply when we reunite.
So much of life is about love and loving.
At the halfway point of my walk, I sit with my thoughts of my beloved, sleeping at home. I could have set things up to take off for the coast at first light. I didn’t set up my plan that way specifically to run these couple of errands and take the time to hold each other a moment before I go, and do some little things to make him more comfortable and less inconvenienced by my absence. This doesn’t just feel like the right thing to do for him, it meets needs of my own, to support my partner. Without these courtesies, I’d be distracted the whole time I’m away, wondering about his experience, instead of living mine.
… I think about that for a little while…
Daybreak comes. The fog muffles the sound of traffic on the highway adjacent to this nature preserve. The darkness lifts slowly, revealing more fog, and the dark silhouettes of the grand oaks on this hillside. It seems a good setting for self-reflection and meditation. Inspiring. Lately I have been feeling so deeply inspired to paint, it spills over into other things. I’m looking forward to giving in to it for a couple days.
Daybreak comes.
I hear voices, approaching from up the trail. When they come into view, I wave and call out a good morning greeting, to avoid startling two photographers, approaching preoccupied with their conversation and their gear. They return my greeting and walk on past, towards the photographer’s blind out on the marsh. It’s a good time of year for it; migratory birds are passing through, and the weather hasn’t turned shitty yet.
I sigh to myself and bring my thoughts back to my own experience. Here. Now. Nice moment to be. I sit with my thoughts a short while longer, finding it a luxury to do so. I consider my pain, and pain management. Look over my shopping list one more time, before admitting to myself that it’s probably time to begin again. I smile like I know a secret, as I get to my feet, stretching.
… Travel tissues! I add them to my list and get going.
It is the dawn of a new day. Yesterday’s mistakes and stepped on boundaries are in the past. This is a completely new and different moment. I walk down the dark marsh trail, following the circle of light provided by my headlamp.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I get to a pleasing stopping point. A favorite fallen log at the edge of a grassy hillside dotted with oak trees makes a decent seat. I wait, watching the eastern horizon for first light on this cloudy morning. I sit with my thoughts, reflecting on a theory my Traveling Partner shared with me recently, about a recurring theme in my artwork, “the nightmare city”. It is my rendering of a dream, a nightmare, that I have had on a recurring basis for many years. I maybe don’t remember not having this nightmare (more often than occasionally).
“The Nightmare City” 8″ x 10″ acrylic on canvas w/glow
The dream itself is simple enough. I am in a city. It seems peculiarly “hollowed out”, as if the buildings are all fake, just facades standing in neat rows. There is a background glow, but it’s hard to tell if it is lights left on, or fire, or warfare. I am walking briskly towards some point in the distance, then running breathlessly but wanting very much to stop. I usually wake before I reach that distant point, heart pounding, breathless, and frightened. Sometimes I’m in it, trapped, hurtling towards some point, when a loud blast of noise hits me with physical force, and there is a sort of popping noise and a flash of light, and so much pain. I wake, grateful to have found my way from the nightmare city, again.
The Nightmare City, some other night, different lighting.
I’ve painted the nightmare city several times. Sketched it. Painted in acrylic, with a ton of glow. Painted in watercolor, ephemeral and surreal. Painted in pastels, a city in flames and as a forlorn abandoned place that can’t harm me now. My nightmares draw me back into that strange city again and again, as if there is something unspoken that wants a voice…
Another version, “Urban Warfare”, rendered in pastels, in 2024, when old trauma and new wars collide in my dreams.
My Traveling Partner only shared his theory when I insisted I’d really like to know his thoughts. He shared his impression that it may be a remnant of “the last thing I saw” before (more specifically as) I injured my head. I don’t recall my injury with any clarity, at all. Hints of partial recollections of fragments of vague memories that generally my consciousness mind has difficulty approaching. A sense of…flight? A gasp, like a final deep breath before plunging into darkness? A distant point of perspective that rushes towards me without properly changing as the distance draws near. An explosion of light? Nothing useful. The official version, when anyone would discuss it with me at all, much later in life, was that I fell down some stairs, maybe (and now can we please talk about something else?).
“Daylight Comes to the Nightmare City”, in pastels, 2026.
My Traveling Partner finally admitted, he sees something characteristic and distinct about my nightmare city paintings; to him they can also potentially be seen as a staircase, or bannister finial, from the perspective of hurtling towards it head first. “Once I realized, I can’t unsee it,” he said. Since he shared that with me, I see it too. I touch the small triangular “divet” I feel on my forehead, and trace the cracks I feel under the skin that radiate out from there, to my hairline, and down into my right eye socket.
… And I wonder…
… Trauma is weird. I still see the city, the road leading away, and feel a strangely nauseous feeling when I contemplate walking down that peculiarly dark street as it seems to narrow towards a point. In my dreams, I never quite reach whatever waits at the other end of the road…
For no obvious reason, I hear a Sam Cooke song in my head as I sit with my thoughts, “… What a wonderful world this would be…”. I sit in the stillness of a summer morning betwixt meadow and marsh, waiting for the sun. Waiting to understand something just out of reach of any clear memories. There’s rarely much anger left over this broken brain – there are more important things to be angry about, these days. I’m okay with who I am, most of the time. I’m grateful for my Traveling Partner, for his kindness not rushing to put ideas in my head out of compassion and love, and for sharing his thoughts willingly and gently when pressed. Considering I really don’t remember my injury, having hints and insights helps me process the unknown, and even the potentially unknowable.
… I’m okay with the uncertainty; I am loved. I can begin again, as often as I need to, in order to heal and grow, and walk on. I look down the path fearlessly. I am awake, and safe, and life is pretty good. I smile, thinking soft happy thoughts about my partner, my best friend. I get to my feet, grateful, humming some tune that is stuck in my my head…
