The Japanese felt tip pens in the Glad bag looked good enough to eat, but I decided instead to make a painting of them.
(Forgive me, I needed something to do, I was reeling from two recent deaths, the death of my country and the death of Leonard Cohen.)
Painting's fun, much more fun than writing, though real painters probably don't think painting's fun any more than real writers think writing's fun.
Painting is play, not really knowing what I'm doing is the point, so I mess around with it, not caring if it's good or bad, until at some point it looks more or less like what it looks like and I stop.
I am not a painter. If I hadn't told you that the image below is an image of Japanese felt tip pens in a Glad bag that I painted would you know what you're seeing?
While I was painting it, writerly thoughts like these popped into my mind: Here's the deal-you're only really allowed to be your self a little while; the rest of your time is spent learning how to be yourself, or trying to be someone else you think you'd like better.