I'd like to paint this picture for you

Last night marked the longest period of time that I have spent alone in my apartment. And there was definitely a point somewhere in hour 5 where I wanted to go out just so the walls would feel a little bigger when I got back in. Its not like I don't like being alone. On the contrary I love being alone. I barely like people at all. Well I like people in the plural sense of the world, its just individuals that I have a problem with. So being alone is one of my favorite states of being.

Until Erie that is, where I'd spent weeks by myself, with the only other person I came into any real contact with being Andres. Clearly I'm scarred because last Sunday I woke up early and ran errands, spent half my day at a coffee shop, and then went over to my dad's because the thought of spending all day in my little studio was soul crushing. And honestly I don't need my soul crushed anymore.

But last night I wanted to stay in. I decided I wasn't going to go out before 10am, it didn't matter that it was a Friday and awesome whomever was going to be wherever doing whatnot. I had stuff to do and I wanted to sleep and I had absolutely no interest in standing in a club having a mindless conversation about whatnot. I wanted to do laundry and watch tv and sleep.

Somewhere in there after finally sitting down and writing something substantial for the first time in months, I decided that I wanted to paint, well sketch some stuff in oils (part 1 of the long and complicated painting process). So I went to open my painting box that had been sitting in my closet for a week. It was like Christmas, and when I pulled out one of my favorite paintings I was deliriously happy knowing that it was now with me and not sitting in some apartment in the middle of nowhere PA. But then as I started pulling stuff out I started getting angry. He'd rolled up some of my paintings and placed packing tape on them to hold them together. Not a big deal until you attempt to pull off the tape and the backing of your favorite painting that took you weeks of work to paint and still isn't finished starts coming off.

Still though, I was happy the paintings were back with me. So I started getting deeper into the box and I realized that there were no paints in there. The 30+ different tubes of artist grade oil paints? Not in the box. My large box of oil pastels? Not in the box. My large sketching pad, that contains everything I've been working on for the last 2 years? Nope, not there. My charcoals? Not there. Even though I'd specifically asked that they all be mailed to me.

If we weren't talking about my entire collection of art supplies that I've been collecting and amassing for years now, I wouldn't have wanted to run someone over with a car. Yea, there are some blank canvases in the box I got, but irony of ironies I have nothing to paint on them with. Oh yea my brushes? All of them? Not in the box.

So I wanted to start throwing stuff. Obviously, because really he should know better than this. He knows how much that stuff means to me. If he had mailed absolutely nothing else it should have been that box. Its hard because I want to vent and at the same time I don't want to say an eight of the things that are rushing through my head right now, because things were really good for a long time and I want to respect that. But, I want my shit back. And of course he's not in Erie anymore, so my stuff if it hasn't been mailed is just going to sit there until December at some point.

Yup. I get the distinct feeling that instead of buying my easel I'm going to have to rebuild my collection. Awesome.

k links:

* My favorite place in Houston is the River Oaks Theatre. And because this is Houston, and we love new things over old things its probably going to be demolished to make a borders or a starbucks or another strip mall. Because lord knows we need another strip mall. Anyways the nytimes is talking about it and you should read about it.

* make any site work friendly. really, make it look like your working all the time.

* the future and whatnot.