Day Fifteen

Officially one week to go. The mingling of relief and fury is a palpable thing inside of me. I can almost taste it, rain and ash. Two weeks down seems sincerely amazing. Seven days to go makes me want to throw things. So I choose - isn't this what we do? We determine our focus and thus remain in the "sane" column of life's ledger, however slim the margin. I have a commission; a painting 24" x 48," pine forest with a river and sunrise, due by September that I have been unable to begin. There are three canvases I started the week before my x-rays waiting on easels in the room adjacent to my bedroom. They whisper constantly.

Today, clutching at the dawn of July 18th like a drowning man with a spindly raft, I wandered the isles of an art store, purchased several canvases, gesso, tubes and tubes of paint. I stood and ran my fingers over paintbrushes, drug them up and down the flesh of the inside of my wrist like a lover, testing for flexibility and splay. I am an addict in need, entirely too many dreams crammed into my skull desperately attempting to spill out. When I have unpainted dreams, my sleep becomes a chaotic jumble of them, a randomly spliced reel that makes no sense and contains no rest.

One week.