I’ve given in to idling, these first warm days of spring, a willing victim to the season’s incurable fever.
I arrive at the studio, browse e-mails, search and play a little on the web, then collapse into a chair until lunchtime, after which I have no desire whatever to accomplish another thing for the remainder of the day.
Even after the distractions of a good book, and a short nap.
This may be the artist’s version of stay-cation after a long and productive winter, or simply the accumulating evidence of creeping chronology, the coupling of metabolic slow-down with the ever-diminishing capacity to give a damn.
It suits me fine.
I lie, content, like a cat, in a sunbeam, contemplating pictures to draw, stories to write, gardenscapes to plot and dig and plant, knowing that each of these will, I am certain, one day soon, be done.
These, these and more.
In due time.
But not today.