My 27th painting, Early Tree, is not part of my earlier UK series, but I do plan to return to that at some point. This one was a gift for a friend who appreciates Early Trees: oddball trees that change colour well before autumn begins, before any of the neighbouring trees do. Early Trees are a gentle, quirky delight.

feeling competent

Today I am on day two of a migraine, and looking for some way to distract myself from it. I debated starting a new painting, since the light is good today, but told myself, No, I think I'll do some cartooning, I can relax with that a bit better.

And I realized what this means.

Painting is still something I need to focus intensely on. I feel like a rank noob, I go slow and second-guess myself every step of the way. But when I draw comics, there is still focus, but it's less scrunched-up concentration and more meditative mindfulness. I feel like I know what I'm doing and can simply rest in that. And today I am taking pleasure in that sense of “knowing what I'm doing”...

Painting #24 is another in my UK Series.

During my last trip to York, I discovered Minster Gates: a short cramped little street, packed with various shops in the ground floors of wonderful old buildings, that suddenly surprises at the end with a view of the side of York Minster. I tried to capture some of that sense of reveal here.

being alive

Neither of my older brothers lived to be as old as I am today. The oldest died just over five years ago, and he was just over five years older than me. So in a sense I have been waiting for this day to see if I could make it. Apparently I did. Ever since he passed, I've harboured an odd feeling that, if I made it to today, that everything I get after this point is gravy... as if I have no right to more than my brothers got.

I'm probably being silly, but I don't intend to worry overmuch about it. I'd rather focus on making the best use I can of these coming days.

My 23rd painting is a self-portrait, another in my UK Series. A few people have liked this one. One of them applauded my courage in tackling a self-portrait, saying that those aren't easy. Oddly enough, part of why I tackled it was because I expected it to be not too hard. I can't think offhand of an artist who never did a self-portrait, so I figured that these were simply The Done Thing® and it was more or less expected that everyone can do it. Glad I didn't know going in that it wasn't easy, or that might have scared me away!

Over the past three evenings, I have conducted my first legal experiences with cannabis. Herewith follows a lengthy preamble:

( my Reefer Madness tale )

This is a night view of the River Foss as seen from Piccadilly. (The actual painting is small, four by four inches.) The two large white lights sit atop Foss Bridge, and the faint golden wall behind and to the left is The Blue Bicycle.

This is one of my fave paintings I have done so far, mostly because I feel like I did a better job of actually capturing what I saw.

finishing my twentieth acrylic painting [a portrait of Sylvan], and getting a positive response to it -- I was expecting more like a WTF but people surprised me by liking it -- some said its my best, even

I've recently been rereading my novels to A) try and get back in gear for my next one and B) reacquaint myself with characters who are due to reappear. My books are rarely sexually explicit, but last night I was reading what is [so far] my only prolonged [chapter-length] sex scene, and something clicked with me. Something not just about how I write, but how I am.

Sex is something I revere. 

When I describe it, I describe it with reverence and respect. Not meaning coyly, with Victorian euphemisms or whatnot, but with an awareness of the spiritual beauty of its intense physical pleasures. And this got me thinking about how out of touch I feel with my culture at large, at least as it reveals itself to me online, which is where most of my interactions happen these days.

I find it distasteful when other people use childish or silly language to describe sexual things. Some people's sex scenes make me feel like I stepped in something when I read them, just because of their tone. It isn't the sex per se that disturbs me -- I'm not a prude -- but rather the "pearls before swine" disrespect. Similarly, degradation of any sort has no place in sex as far as I'm concerned -- worship is more like what feels natural to me. On a bad day, it even seems to me that saying that sex is "fun" runs the risk of trivializing it. But that's just me.

I'm not saying my way is better, just that I know what works for me and what doesn't. Not saying that people aren't free to like what they like. If people mutually enjoy calling their body parts stupid names or talking to each other like enemies, then so be it. My point is more that I feel so out of touch, all at sea on the ocean of sexuality. I see almost no representation of my perspective from anyone else out there. Is it a generational thing? Is the romantic point of view inherently quieter?

I dunno. But I have no plans to change my slant on it to get in tune with everyone else. I remain a stubborn cuss to the end.

Day 30: A song you'd listen to while wistfully looking out the window of a bus

Traces by The Classics IV

I chose this because of the key word wistfully -- this is one of the most wistful songs I know, and I do love it. But if I were allowed to look happily or dreamily out the bus window, then my song would be one that for me epitomizes the joys of travel: (Cross the) Heartland by The Mighty Pat