About to clean the living room. Imagine a world underground. I know what happens. I know where you go. I know all the pieces and none of the words.
So I look for a show, something to fill the silence. I just don't want to jump to the window at every car door. It's the neighbors. I just can't let the curiosity go if I hear it. It's not a traight I hope to nurture. Songs have always been distracting. The words stick to my memories, waiting to be stolen. So I look for a show. Something I don't have to watch but nothing so familiar it relaxes me to sleep.
I want to be painting.
I was painting this weekend, a Wednesday really. I told J "I watch people do this, watch their videos,"I pause "and they stay completely clean. I never could do that." I wear a pink shirt covered in paint and marks from bleach and dye. My hands stained in purple. Changing is part of the ritual.
I told j once with paint on my hands that this is how I feel the most like myself. He mocks me with it pretty regularly now. "I'm never baring my soul to you again!" I say with an eyeroll.
The baby cries and I realize these is no day we can hang out and paint together. I traded it.Someone has to be the active watcher so if I paint I will be lonely even when doing it together. We can't both make things with our hands.. Maybe next year. But for now I am thankful he gave me his time so I could get it done. And in the inbetween moments we sit in the sunshine right next to the dog.
I have not raided in a year. And it still hurts to even say it typed out alone to myself.
A is asleep now. I'll finish up. Maybe I'll have time to draw.
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