I am trying not to think about that. So I try to read a book and it only reminds me of what I am trying to not think about. This causes me to lapse into memories I have not thought of in a while. They create a longing to go back to those times and the beautiful clarity of them. They were good places and I miss them, today I miss them. So quietly I paint without my usual force, I am listless daydreamy and prone to escape. It seems it is all I have to find those times, the smell of oil the rustle of the brush, the only means to bridge the gap. My one voice an echo. It is almost the only peace I can find lately, that and an occasional...

dreamy dreamy corby who swam an extra 10 minutes of laps because I am so out there today...