Somewhere buried underneath them is my open diary, still turned to last week's busy schedule. There's time to enjoy creative chaos this week and I've turned off the phone.
Across the window ledge, leaning to dry, splattered with sand and glue, a series of five sketches done quickly, brought to life after finding a page yesterday that I had forgotten about. Looking back at the original sketch, I have an odd feeling that it wasn't really done by me. Mulling them over as I finish my tea, lines and textures, no colour yet, I know they all need to have a certain kind of blue in them. My sleeves are rolled up ready to open up the wide mouthed pot of cool gesso, see it mark the crooked paths in my hands as I level it into a mosaic like fields in a white winter landscape.
I trip over my shoes, left where I kicked them off as I came back from driving home alone after a performance on Saturday, needing a beer. My violin still sits behind the door, unplayed since then, needing a bit of spit and polish and a new string. I cover the floor, plan where I will be making a mess and letting the paint run in happy streams, where my inky fingerprints will touch.
A dark pink geranium with heavy heads nods in the slice of cool morning air at the window, only open an inch today. My half eaten plate of strawberries looks out at the trees swaying, the white plate creates strange dark reflections of water droplets.
My journal is open, left mid-sentence, pen held in the valley of a steep page that wants to turn over too soon. A few sides are filled with free flow lines of loose handwriting done earlier. A crumpled back of envelope list of ideas from yesterday's beach walk, rescued from a jeans pocket, reminds me of something else I want to come back to.