Babbling travels, paper, a mess, a memory.

The fan above my head brings a slight chill to my hands. It’s hot outside this afternoon. So quiet at this moment. Peaceful. Jack and Fiona are sleeping soundly.  I feel completely at ease, things are different now. I know what I have to do, what I need to work on. My husband texts me: “I’m going to check out Sprouts. Do you want anything?” (It’s a new grocery store down the street) I reply, “I’m so jealous!!!Bring home some yummy foods for us and the babies!” I also gave him a list of vegetables for the juicer. I’m excited about the new grocery store. There are days when I just say, “No” or “nothing” or “whatever.”  My poor husband. I painted today. Made two pieces I really like. Inspired by a group I joined on Facebook called Asemic Writing.  I was intrigued by the images people were posting. “The word asemic means “having no semantic meaning.”( Wikipedia) “The meaning is left for the reader to fill in and interpret.” I listen to the babies babble on the monitor when working in my studio. The frequencies of their voices influence my paintings, the lines, the colors. Sometimes I am relaxed, the babbling is sweet and content. Other times I am on edge, I can’t tell if the babbling will turn into a cry, its high pitched, whiny, and piercing. Jack and Fiona inspire my painting and writing practice. I’m paying close attention, letting them explore, giving them beet tops to chew and examine, room to room, drawer to drawer, replacing dangerous items with fun finds. I watch them get delighted. I come upstairs after I put them to bed and am upset. The first thought that comes to my mind is why didn’t Alan help pick up? There are diapers, magazines, tortillas, toys, everything is a mess, have to clean it. I start picking up the diapers and magazines. A smile comes to my face. I don’t mind that Alan didn’t help anymore, I’m not upset I have to clean  up by myself, I’m only thinking about how much fun they had and what they learned when the mess was being made. All my paintbrushes are hard. My studio is a mess. I am very productive. The paper I’m using now is imbedded with information. Age has discolored it slightly, given it an antique look and feel. The smell of musk released as I wet the paper, gives me a feeling, a reminder of people no longer on earth. A memory.

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist