Somewhere along the line of the years that have passed since my regular writing of posts on this blog I evidently began – and evidently have become very good at – doubting myself. I never questioned myself over any word I put here during those writing years. Right now I question, “Why am I even here? I no longer have anything to say!” I do know, now, that until NOW, I didn’t even realize my doubting of self existed!

Nothing like a blank space to bring one up SMACK against reality.

It’s not that I don’t write. I am nearly through bound journal #29. Excuse the pause. I had to go look. It was on Tuesday 2/6/2018 that I wrote my first word in journal #1: What is “art” — what is “painting”? Not a day has passed since then that I have missed a day of writing.

SO? Did some kind of backlash happen that led me from the last serious post I wrote on this blog off to a rugged detour fed by cheap ballpoint ink pens and – how old school of me – paper pages? This journal journey began as I read “Renoir, My Father” by Jean Renoir, originally published 1962. I absorbed that book slowly through my skin.

I have lived the same way ever since.

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