I am waiting, ostensibly, for the paint on the canvas to dry. Never mind that it dried long ago. In the meantime I am sitting, inviting inspiration to move me. The paint on the palette is not usable now that it has hardened like rubber and cracked, caked with a mat of dust that makes the colors indistinguishable, falling to the floor in little broken crumbles. The brush gripped between my weary fingers is stiff with desiccated cerulean blue, cobwebs hanging from it to the jar of mineral spirits skimmed over with dust and a single dead fly. I am staring at a place on the wall where I am certain something will happen soon despite all evidence to the contrary. I dare not move lest I discover that I have died, succumbed to years with no water, no food, a lack of basic human care. I might crumble with soft noise in a billow of dust at the feet of this filthy, neglected easel, toppling the canvas with its single, faded blue stroke - the beginnings of the sky, perhaps, or maybe the sea. Sometimes you have to wait for art to come to you and exhale life warmly into your moldering remains. You have to have faith that the universe has not forgotten you forever. After a long, dry season inspiration will return, falling like rain on yellowed fields, tracing through your matted hair over your forehead and into your eyes, then running down your cheeks like tears, whispering to you the ancient secrets of life: Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat for as long as you can.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well.