Clinton Marsh RevisitedOil on canvas, 24x48
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After all these years writing this blog, you might think I have a good idea what I'm doing. Most days, I think you'd be right.
But yesterday, I uploaded the photo, thought about changing it, hit a button, wondered - hmm... - then got interrupted before that "hmmm" turned into a whole thought - and I was off and running on my 4:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Patch day - and thoughts of my blog never returned until this morning, when I opened my email and saw notes from eight of you...
Ah well, 'tis the season, eh? The season of forgetting, of making lists and losing them, of setting out with the best of intentions and the worst of directions, and ending up someplace you never thought you'd be when you got up this morning.
This painting has been sitting on my easel for weeks, unusual for me, as I've snatched time from the rest of my life to finish a portion here, a portion there, and finally, it is done, and I love it. Absolutely love it. Yes, it's different from my regular colors, but it is still bright, bright enough, with that soft bright light that you get off the water on an overcast day. I'm really pretty happy with it.
In other news, I sold the Miata on Sunday. Yeah, I know. Many of you remember when I bought the little car, and how much fun I have had in it. But it needs stuff. It needs a new roof, it needs a new driver's seat, it needs a new paint job. The motor is fine - great, really - but the rest is beyond me and my means right now - so when a nice, nice man at our yard sale asked it if was for sale, I gulped and said yes.
I cried as I drove, with the top down, to deliver it. Cried because I loved my little car, loved driving it in impossibly cold and impossibly hot days. Loved driving it back and forth from New York to New London when my mother was dying. Loved driving her around in it, and hearing her laugh as the wind blew on her chemo-hairless head. Loved driving it out into the countryside, zipping around the curves, pulling into teeny parking places - and feeling young and reckless and like a girl who would have a convertible.
I cried, also, I know, because I don't want to think of myself as a girl who wouldn't have a convertible.
And so, I will not. I am still a girl who would have a convertible, even though I am now a girl who has a minivan.