Sucky Sucky

I wasn't going to check the mail this morning. I've got to go downstairs to check the mail, and walk across the lobby, and go back up again--a small task under ordinary circumstances, but horribly arduous when done with the weight of a pain-monkey on one's back. Quite apart from the discomfort involved, I don't like people seeing me flopping about like a drunk, holding my slobby self up with the wall. People always assume the worst in these cases. They don't think Poor sod--clearly in terrible pain!--they think What a sloppy old drunk! I don't pay downtown rent to live near people like that! So I didn't want to go. I wanted to prop myself up with cushions stuffed under the arms of my computer chair, balance a lovely cold ice-cube on my head, and get some damn work done. Maybe I'd make some hot chocolate first, and breathe in the hot steam to soothe my lungs. I'd listen to Il Barbiere di Siviglia, always guaranteed to raise my spirits, and...

...but I had to check the mail. I'm waiting for a cheque, see. My Visa's almost full again, and I have to pay some of it off before I can pay my health insurance premiums for the last three months. (I'm not late with them--one always pays quarterly.) I've got to pay by the end of this month, or I'll get in trouble. Lose my coverage, maybe. I'm not sure what they do if you don't pay, and I don't want to find out. Thus, I dragged myself downstairs, slug-wise, sniffling and whiffling like Stella in search of food. Fortunately, the elevator was completely deserted, and the lobby was similarly empty. I floundered about in relative peace. When I opened the mailbox, my cheque wasn't there. There was, however, an intriguing little box. Inside the box, there was a note--

--and a small figurine of a rat, curled up in an amusing position.

It was a gift from Dan and Geckzilla. I was very pleased to get it, and proceeded to work with a spring in my step. Well, not a literal spring, but I did have a weird little grin stuck on my face for a while.

Work: I got a reasonable amount of it done. I navigated puzzles of cloth and solved colour conundrums. I wondered if I should really be thinking about painting that way. When I paint, I'm in the same frame of mind I might find myself in while solving a difficult equation. What do I have to do to get comparable parts on either side of the equals sign? If I put a dab of red over here, will it counterbalance the scarlet bodice there? Will these white flowers reflect the burning sky, or draw attention away from it? Do I need one wash of green, or two? If this fold of stiff cotton cloth on the right goes downwards at a 15-degree angle, what can I put on the left to mirror that angle? Do I have similar numbers of horizontal and vertical lines in my composition? I could drive myself mad. It's not that I don't enjoy it, of course--but isn't painting supposed to be more intuitive, sort of thing? Aren't you supposed to feel it, rather than thinking it?

Then again, it's the result that counts, not what I thought about while I did it. Of course, the result might vary according to the thought process followed. If I were more spontaneous, and just put colours without considering too carefully...I'd end up with rubbish. Screw that. First, I'll perfect my technique. Then, I'll worry about what's going on in my head.

I think I can finish the portrait I've been working on tomorrow, barring horrible health. I've got one of two figures more or less painted in, and once the second figure's done, all that remains is the immediate foreground (read: a lot of grass and flowers and so forth). I can paint grass very quickly. I'm good at grass. It's people I have trouble with, and all the confusing things they wear. And their faces, of course. I'm pants with faces. I need to spend more time sketching them, especially wearing different expressions. Mouths, in particular. I have trouble with mouths. I don't like the way teeth and tongues look, so I paint mouths as lines with shadows above and below, to indicate lips. I ignore the form underneath. I have to work on that.

Did I do anything today apart from working? I can't remember--I don't think so. I ate chocolate pudding. I don't know why I bought that. I hate chocolate, apart from hot chocolate and ginger chocolates, which are really just lumps of ginger dipped in chocolate, so you hardly taste the stuff. I took a nap between two and five, and the grocery man came at five-thirty or so. That's when the pudding arrived. In addition to pudding, I got:

- One large bottle of ketchup
- Two hundred grams of Calabrese salami
- A loaf of black bread
- A litre of white grape juice
- A litre of purple grape juice
- A litre of low-acid orange juice
- A packet of frozen curly-fries
- Two packets of spaghetti noodles
- Six cans of barley soup
- Two medium-sized frozen pizzas
- Three tomatoes
- Artichoke hearts in olive oil
- One yellow rose.

I didn't order the rose--it was just in there with the rest of the stuff. It must've gone in by accident. I phoned to see if it was meant to be part of someone else's order, but the manager said not to worry about it. Once I was sure I wouldn't have to give it back, I took all the petals off and put them in the bag with the dirty shoe, which I've still not got rid of. As soon as I'm feeling better, that shoe's a goner. It's smelling up my whole solarium.