I believe there is an art to living. Some days are going to be like a da Vinci, works of meticulous genius, inspired, beautiful, everything falling into place. Some days are like a Basquiat or a Pollock, chaotic and random, full of a thousand thoughts and ideas all merging together at once. Some days are like a Mondrian piece, blocks of time portioned out, some filled and some not, but with a rigid schedule in place that cannot be deviated from. These days lately for me feel like a page from a coloring book, filled in by a four year old; clear outlines of what should be, but it's a hurricane spilling out from the sides, punctured, crumpled and yet promising. I wish I had a fresh canvas or fresh sheet of paper, to begin anew upon the ideas of old, take bits and pieces of the stuff that worked and scrap all the rest for good. My new piece will be influenced by the masters but be a unique piece all its own. I won't paint for the critics anymore. I will flood it with color and light and joy and whimsy and hope. And I will live. Finally.