I’m still tired. I purged my whole bathroom on Sunday. Threw out a lot of expired personal care products. Put in new shelves. Baskets for towels. “Lovely,” my mother called it.
My bathroom is considerably more grown-up than it was day before yesterday. The kids don’t like it. “This bathroom is impossible!” Leo grumbles. Nevermind that it’s far more functional than the previous configuration, in which the toilet paper was endlessly ending up under the old clawfoot tub, gathering dust and unwinding itself. The children would howl at the sight of that white twisted snake peeking out from the lightless place their toes peek at while they sit on the potty. Nevermind that the toilet paper now lives in a wire bowl which you can reach from the toilet itself. All four rescued partial rolls, the dust dusted off, the unwound sheets rewound, like crumpled ribbon. The children are wary of change. The bathroom is lovely.
Drawing has been tough to fit in. It was incidental, the beginning of this project. I happened to have some long stretches alone. Hours to draw. If the project had occurred to me within the past two weeks, I don’ know that it ever would have gotten started. I have had only dribs and drabs of negotiable time lately. Ten minutes in the car or on the porch – before I rush to some other endeavor. Five minutes hurriedly sketching a door, hunched over my desk at work, before anyone notices that I’m not working.

I can see how people fall into wanting to do nothing but draw, or paint, or play music, or whatever. It’s hard to lose yourself in the process when everything feels expedient. However, perhaps there is a larger process that I am lost in. Perhaps craving is part of it.

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