I have been laying down the inital passes to make concrete for another Gearworld painting–this time an ambitious 24 x 36, the size of the Twigjack or the Cardinals–and my hands have acquired the living-dead look that can best be achieved by layered Paynes Gray in successive washes, scrubbing about half of it off with soapy water, and then deciding it doesn’t friggin’ matter, I’m gonna do it all again ANYWAY, and repeating the process with raw umber. My nails and cuticles and all the little lines in my knuckles are sharply delineated, the line-drawing anatomy-study-in-ballpoint-pen kind of look.

I have Earl Grey tea with sourwood honey, and a slice of cheesecake sitting innocently in the fridge, awaiting me.

The cat is asleep on James’s chair, a foot away, curled into a neat donut, like an ermine hemerrhoid pillow (and presumably of similiar odor, although I’m not going to snort cat fur just to check the accuracy of my bad similes.)

The vast majority of my Christmas shopping is done. The art gifts aren’t, but my friends are a largely agnostic and irreligious bunch, and probably won’t much care as long as they show up before July.

It’s cold out and warm in here.

And y’know, life is pretty good.

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