Winter is coming, and it shall be unlike any other. Hunker down and if we must venture forth, mask up.
I am grateful that I have a studio to retire to—one that is private, filled with natural light, and just warm enough. Art fills my head most waking moments. Occasionally I get a catch in my throat and find myself saying ‘I cannot die’. It is affirmation, assertion, fervent desire.
I am full of energy and brimming with ideas. All my life I’ve had a knack for right place wrong time. Being a late bloomer (short on precocity and long on procrastination), I’m just sliding into my sweet spot now—terminal illness be damned. Yes. Now that that little episode of depression (actually, nothing little about it) is bygone, I am bursting at the seams to achieve. Write! Paint! Compose! Assemble! Make–love and merriment! And lots and lots of art!
It’s a fine fucking feeling. Unfettered joy. Bliss. Perhaps a tad of mania. But after my sojourn in melancholia, I think that some over the top happiness is to be not only forgiven, but enjoyed.