Free to good home

Dionysus

is a sailboat that's for sale. A nice Hunter 34 that we used to sail against in the Monday night beer can races on the Potomac. I'm thinking I could sell this house and live on the boat. Dock it at the base. Ride a bike or walk to work. If I need to go anywhere else I can sail and save on gas. Can I get wifi dockside?
I finished the varnishing of Russian Lullaby. Be on the lookout for a photo posting soon. Contest still on. Progress on other paintings is minimalistic. Do you remember a few posts back where I talked about the old farmhouse that Faulkner reincarnate was visiting? I have seen construction vehicles in the driveway and some new boards around the base. They are bringing her back from the grave. Goodbye buzzards. Maybe one day on the way home from work I'll snap a few photos for the blog.
It's good banjer pickin weather. I'm going to dust the strings off and hear what happens. Bubba out!

I am your father

Dollars to Donuts

Its easier to raise a baby than to raise the dead.
-Unknown

FYI, I didn't paint these ;) But I did paint today. I am finished with my ode to Russian vodka. It was a struggle to the end. Now I know how the Germans felt. I am not happy with it. After I put varnish on it, I will take another picture for the blog and will give it away to the first person who leaves a comment with the correct brand of vodka depicted.
I am excited about my newest painting which is just emerging. It is constructed after the picture above. I tend to enjoy the opening moves, fumble my way through the middle, and struggle with the end game. God is in the details though people. I tried to end another painting that has been sitting unfinished for years in the studio but I was thrashing wildly and not succeeding with my vision so I stopped for the day.

I learned some valuable lessons today. It is hard to paint backlit tall beach grass convincingly. You can correct mistakes in oil. At one point I thought I'd totally screwed up Russian Lullaby, and was about to go Jackson Pollock on it, but I took a deep breath and tried to fix it, and did. Finally, junk mail is a useful tool.

That White Sustenance

Long time no blog. I wish I could say I was off saving the world or painting. Well, maybe I was saving the world, one byte at a time, but I wasn't painting. Driving home this afternoon, I passed an old abandoned farmhouse that in it's prime was probably quite charming. It is weathered, gray, and missing most of the glass in the windows and the front door now. It still has two proud chimney's on each shoulder of the house. Today, in the fading orange twilight, it was covered with buzzards, one perched atop each chimney and a couple circling above the house like combat air patrol. A bleak vision to end the work day.

If I were reincarnated, I’d want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything. — William Faulkner

That's one way to look at it Bill. Hell, maybe Bill was hanging out in King George County today.

After a certain number of blog posts about not painting, I believe it will be time to stop blogging about painting. There is nothing sadder than blogging about something that you don't do, like you do do, unless you're getting paid to do that. With the cost of gas and the falling dollar, who can afford to travel either? Which leaves me with only random detritus to fill these pages with. And that's just what the world wants! When I turn 40 I want to do another Ironman. Who is with me? I got 3 years to get back in shape, born again hard Private Pyle. That's a reasonable expectation. I'll do it in another country too. New Zealand? Australia? I'll take a three month leave of absence from work and tour the southern hemisphere. Sail a boat from Sydney to Wellington. Catch some Australian Open. Throw a ring into Mount Doom.

I want to go to Mississippi. I just realized tonight how many giants of American music came from Mississippi. B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Willie Dixon, Elvis, Bill. Ok, Bill wasn't a musician, but he could spin a mighty good story. I'm leavin out a bunch of folks too. I'm going down there and I'm going to drink the water. I'll visit old scratch down at the crossroads if I have to.

He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
-William Faulkner, again

I feel like a pretentious ass quoting Faulkner this much tonight. I can hear Constant Reader out there, who does this clown think he is? And I'm with you:

oh yes
There are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.
-bukowski

I think Hank is less pretentious. But I have also called them Bill and Hank. I haven't slept well in 4 days. Let's blame it on that. I'm a pair of ragged claws tonight. Deadliest Catch returns in less than two weeks. One of my favorite shows.

Don't get any big ideas
they're not gonna happen
You paint yourself white
and fill it with noise
but there'll be something missing
-Radiohead

If I had any discretion or an editor I'd stop writing. It is way past a bedtime for someone who should wake up at 5 am. But is there still a nugget hiding on the ocean floor? I envy you people that lay their heads on a pillow and fall fast asleep. If I keep writing, who will fall asleep first, me or you? But I beat on, a boat against the current born to sail for orgastic green lights at the end of the dock. I'd still like a sailboat, but I'm no closer to one. Budget's tight all around these days. Speaking of today, I heard/read two April Fool's stories from a couple of my favorite media outlets and I fell hook line and sinker on both till the end when they reminded me what day it is. My picture is in the dictionary next to fool.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot
-W.S.