There’s more going on these days than there used to be. Even in the evenings, a formerly hallowed time, I’m busier. And even when I’m not busier, I think I ought to be using my time to paint instead of write. I don’t care for writing as much as I used to. They call icon painting icon writing, maybe there’s something funny about that, I’m not sure. 

We went downtown and walked with Roby. We got some paint brushes, I need a smaller one, and a repair kit for my jacket. Those things and some bath toys for Roby, she’s had the same boring old cups since she was born, and we’re taking baths more often than we used to. So now she has a little flapping diver-man and a watering can. 

I did my first sketch painting and it’s alright, but only alright. The process is tough to trust for me, I have so much to learn it’s intimidating. But I’m doing it for me, I think, and not the icons I’ll some day have. 

I do this blog, not for me. I do it for my mom mostly, and because I think it’ll be an interesting artifact years from now. Ah, yes, the blog I wrote in my early thirties, for the first few years of Robinia’s life. That’s a treasure of insight, even as meandering and stream-of-consciousness as this is. 

Maybe that’s enough.