i don't know when i became such a coward. i suppose i could say that time has whittled away whatever creative juicy bits that were once a part of moi, but i don't know if it's merely time, or a sustained diet of intellectual laziness. sigh...did you know that when i was younger (and not that much younger at that, this disease goes back no more than 15 years or thereabouts) i used to draw all the time? all the bloody time. if i didn't have a sketchbook around, i'd open up the paper envelope that tea bags come in and draw on that. really. i have material evidence.
as angry as this makes me, it is an anger steeped in lassitude and spiked regularly with cloves of regret, all pomander-like, and really, what else can i do? i've set up a table with paints and paper and canvases and still i'd rather while away the afternoon on this here contraption, to my everlasting shame, and gee, even so, you get an update only sporadically.
i'm not one for new year's resolutions, but i think it might be time to make some sort of proclamation in the town square, forcing my audience (hint: that's you) to become partner in the criminal negligence of any kind of talent that had once been granted to me by an alcoholic fairy godmother. (if the convolutions of the previous few sentences managed to leave you in the dark, worry not, i feel the same way, and am still feeling my way through a maze of ideas, verbs and, because i am who i am, far too many adjectives) i.e. you must hold me up to account. ok? so on occasion, ask me if i'm doing stuff, drawing things, if i've faced the fear and vanquished the blank page. please.
and thank you.