I cannot stop thinking about painting.
I took Olivia to her Brownie meeting last night, and Molly and I walked through the art store, and I was drawn to the pre-stretched canvases, and paints. All of the beautiful paintbrushes. I sniffed the linseed oil bottles and was taken back to another time in my life.
I couldn't sleep last night. And then I went back to the dream studio, on the dream property, of the dream house, on the bay, in my mind. I heard the slapping of the flag in the wind, high atop the flag pole, and the clanging of metal from it.
I go to that space when I cannot sleep. I am instantly lulled into a relaxed state. I have easels of all sizes. And giant wooden tables, with mason jars filled with paintbrushes. A huge slop sink in the corner, stained from years of oil paints. The room smells like turpentine.
And I paint. On giant canvases taller than I, I paint. My poppy photo keeps coming into my mind. I desperately want to paint it. I keep looking at Georgia O'Keefe paintings. I keep longing to be in that studio.
I keep thinking about the poppy.