Peggy Suicide

Well, I think that it is evidently a good thing that I am not primarily a writer, given the fact that I constantly forget to write this blog. The reason being, mainly, that I am caught up with painting as much as physically possible. Secondly I am a single other of two teenage sons who need constant feeding and taxiing around and thirdly because painting is a physically exhausting place to be.

It is a place you know.

When you get there there are no clocks, food, drink or lavvies. Time passes out of time. people no longer matter. Thinking processes cease to be conscious and the subconscious comes to the fore. Conversations take place, but only with the paint and the subject upon topics I can never recall.

Interrupted as I was just now, by a visit from my mother I jumped in shock and swore at her. Once she had left with a flea in her ear I returned to the painting to find marks I could not remember making, colours I had no idea I had mixed and changes I had not decided upon.

I also found that the painting was finished. So thanks mum. Sorry about the flea.

So here she is.

Peggy Suicide

Peggy Suicide