My last entry.

I look at the edges of your hat, the shape traced

by the brush that

creates almost a silhouette

until the details are filled in.

I just painted eyes this weekend, frustrated, repainted

until I re-projected them

and made them sort of

Manga-ish.

Do you want to be in one of my paintings? You’re already in your own.

Maybe staring at your for all these months made me want to paint, after all.

It seems I never followed through with the sculpture. I’m surprised & not surprised. Still, I don’t know how you influence me, or if you’re just a star among the thousands I see in the night sky. If you were

in my painting, how would you be?

Now I see convention

and darkness,

And I want to play.

I see restrictions and

Know I have freedom.

I feel impatient, I feel after all this time I have assimilated you into my lexicon of images, which means while I reference you, quote you, and know your look intimately, I know nothing about you.

You have ceased to exist except as another quote.

You stand on your own. You’ll always be something else.

But at the moment, I’m more fond of the rich blue wall behind you, and what I might paint on it if I had the chance…………………………………………