Sometimes I paint

November is my second least favorite month.  March, so far is the winning loser.  But February last year was pretty dark and long despite its short 28 days, so it might move up in the rank of bad months depending on how it plays our this year.

I do like 11/11, my father’s birthday, although he’s been dead longer than he was alive now by almost a decade. And Thanksgiving has its warmth.  But mostly the month feels like a set of nos; no color, no heat, no pleasant afternoons, no sunshine, no light, no leaves on the trees, no flowers, no bees, no crickets, no bare skin.

So for the past few years I’ve been painting each day of November to help color the days and terrify myself just a little. I don’t like missing goals. I don’t like to say I’m going to do something and then not. I don’t expect every painting to be good, but I do expect every one to get the point of done, as a draft, as something close to something.

It also means I get to carry around in my head the colors and pictures of things I might want to try to paint. the rabbit from my morning run. The sparrows on the wire. The glimpses of summer landscapes that show up in my dreams. The light.  The movement. The Budgie.




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