#451

Yeah well guess what, I couldn't type for however the fuck long it's been since last post because my office became such a critical disaster of book mess all over and stuff for art and pieces in various states of transition and completion all over the fuckin place that I could not pick a path to the desk. It was not worth the trouble, and often, literally impossible.

Painting has taken precedence over everything else in my life anyway, the locus of all my directed energies. Sketching, speed-cartooning, mixed-media with garbage and oddments, collage, but most of all, just painting--on cardboard and salvaged pieces of wood, mostly. Hasn't felt this good or natural to be painting since I was a child. If a day contains the potential for plans or the attendance of duties, you can bet I have by and large ignored all that and spent as much of it as possible painting instead.

The last couple of days, though, I have been itching to write, as is also fundamental to my being--but I finally realize, perhaps to the detriment of the rest of my artistic impulses and needs. It is just as important to paint and draw and sing and whistle and play musical instruments. It is all as necessary to my writing and my writing is to me, and my writing feeds these things back in its turn. It is true! Must remember it. Must act on that knowledge and ply its power into my foundations and decisions.

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Absolutely gotta remedy the office situation both for my mental health and the physical health of my books, as well as to accomodate all the art I have to store now and the need to have the materials in better organization. Found a piece of furniture on the sidewalk perfect for storing scraps and sheets and bits in, it's like an old wooden mailbox or in-tray for offices or libraries or whatever. 

On that note, short post, must do something with the office before the cutoff imposed by having to get ready for work. It's cool. It's chill. I'll be around more often. 

Got lots of ideas.

--JL