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Paint sticks and the big black sketchbook and bourbon, alone in the parlor. Fire and dog, hearth and home as the tired Odysseus; weary from the semester and its toll. Black on black my thoughts; trading in subtlety, perhaps waxing intellectual against my better judgement.
There's something fine about oil paint across surface. On paper, it glides and clumps and drags: roads, I am always on roads after all. There's the work. The work that is rigorous and hard but that is liberating in a way that nothing else is. I tend to happen upon. Yet I put myself there in the first place, and happenstance then becomes a constructed sum of intention and opportunity. When we prepare ourselves for chance...well, there you have it.
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