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I just spent four hours working on eight different paintings.  They are all over the house – on the kitchen table, the island, the cupboard, the bed, the couch, the floor.  Everywhere except the coffee table, where most of the work took place, because I just scrubbed it down for our pending company.  Hopefully the fumes will have dissipated by the time the mom-to-be arrives.  I’m only halfway through my eight-hour playlist, but my painting energy has dropped off.


I rode my bike to the art store this morning.  It was sunny today, and I’ll do anything not to drive on my day off.  This guy was telling the art store employees and any of the customers he presumed to be interested that the best way to find out the value of your paintings is through auctions.  He sells them for $15.  No thank you (I don’t really settle for making 18 cents an hour on labour).


I biked down what looked like a road leading east to find myself on a very industrial and very scenic (in that sort of urban wasteland kinda way) dead end, with railroads on both sides and a lot of dumped garbage and couches, and a bus that had an extension cord running to it from across the road.  Even in broad daylight I suddenly had a chill down my spine like I had just discovered myself in a trap (or in an Alfred Hitchcock set).

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