Draw. Smoke. Sip wine. Read. Wash a dish or whatever. Repeat. The new step to the cycle is the drawing. Well I am no artist and I know I am supposed to practice and I paid all this money to take not one but two courses. Glutton for punishment. Impulsive times two. So I thought I should practice.
So I came home from work last night and saw my pristine new sketchbook there on the table with my cool new pencil case and knew that inside were my 8B, 6B, 4B, 2B, HB, F, 2H, 4H, 6H pencils that had cost me nearly twenty dollars. Twenty dollars for pencils! I collect them off the hallway floors at school for free, don’t I? But these were special and it was my little kit.
So I sat down and drew something. Exactly what was in front of me: the bookshelves and the plant and the sign “Swim between the flags” and the vase of dried roses. And it turned out just fine. Not horrible. So I felt good.
So today I had that positive residue still over me and over the spot on the table where I have been leaving my sketchbook and pencil case kit. So I thought I would practice again. Well sometimes you just have a boy on your mind and so that was what or whom I wanted to draw. And it turned out just fine. Not too horrible at all.
And so I did what all normal people do these days and I posted my mediocre accomplishment on Facebook. And then a friend whom is really so far an acquaintance commented: Hey, draw me! And I thought I would because I was on a roll. And I drew him and it was awful.
Anyway I sent him the thing but I did not post it publicly. So I learned that my roll is one drawing per day. Or maybe I learned that I draw things much better to which I have an emotional attachment. Or maybe I learned that when I draw semi-well that it is just a fluke like that painting I painted a few years ago which inspired me to buy an easel and paints and I painted several shitty paintings before giving up and all my art supplies away. Or maybe I learned that I am just learning and that sometimes I will draw okay drawings and sometimes I won’t. That’s it.
Eight o’clock and the last straggling rays of daylight scuffle out. They warn you. Hey. Night is coming. Brace yourself. Chapter three of The Sun Also Rises. Half a pack of cigarettes. Half a bottle of wine. And that same, stupid boy on my mind. Smoke. Sip wine. Read. Repeat.