I have painted all day to the point of isolation. I do not want to go anywhere see anyone just be melancholy and paint it out on her face. I see this weird continuum in this work, a glimpse of the paintings yet to be in certain passages like hints of some future. This one sits on the edge of promise and she gives it to me here and there. As if she represents both the clumsy past and the near future. She almost has music in her as I grow more confident. Almost a synchronicity of color as her legs edge out to lilac. I feel the past and future so clearly that I have an odd disjointed feeling when I look at her. I almost cannot look at her. Did I do that? Where was I there and there? Almost like bringing intimacy to a stranger; this painting is troubling me. I am so close and will spend lifetimes to get there, wherever there is. The mystery of where I am trying to go in each work or what is it I am really trying to say. How can I even know my own compulsions? Why have to paint one so badly but not others? I am gazing at the long tunnel of my future life, the one you cannot know but seek so badly to know. What is it? What does it hold? Who will be in the spaces of the future? All I feel is endings but as I look at this work I want so much to know that there is time, and the ending is superficial. I have such hope it pains me in so many ways it would be easier to settle on nothing at all. Somehow I cannot, somehow I am driven to keep painting and traveling despite the obvious destination. How strange to find my own inconsistency startling and the clarity of my choices so unhidden by subjective speculation. I am so melancholy with the passing of time and my foolish desire to have what I cannot, still even now. What magic does he have that keeps me so struck by him? It is the same reason that this figure holds the string to what is and what is yet to be. She is one of the fates then but the string is not woven, but cut and piled. A life removed from the warp of all others.