Sweet Spot

I hesitate to say I am struggling. I hesitate to come here after some time and whine. I am sketching, which is good but it means I am not painting. 

Not necessarily bad, but I am much happier when I am in the middle of a painting than when I am drawing. 

Painting seems more important. And I guess it is. Maybe I am happier because it feels more like a means to an end. Drawing is continuous perhaps. Income can come from painting easier than drawing. My drawings are more personal? No not really. 

I am more confident and there are less decisions to be made when drawing.  I want to stop saying I am not painting when I am not painting. I do a lot of things, and sometimes they are all going, and sometimes only a few, and sometimes none. Mostly I stay away from none. Drawing is the ember I carry from rainstorms in the forest. It all comes down to scratching.

And I love painting and I miss it. Such a silly notion given its proximity. Ah but I am my own worst enemy as they say. That said this morning I went on about how my drawings are much better than my paintings.  Destiny says its the easy way for me. To go off in a corner and draw. 

Focus. Let the scratching begin. The pen, and lately the pencil, are the quick easy route to settling me down. I will admit.

I scratch away with sharp lead, and soon the paper will open up, and I will be inside.  

Inside, where the minute becomes orchestral.

Every perception sharply poised

So like a fisher I wait. 

Like the Blue Heron... still... like a rock.