It is Monday, and I am recovering from a busy but productive weekend. The painting is going well, and I am ready to tackle the next phase of it: putting a bed and a very covered up gal in it. All in blue, with except perhaps a minor tint of red for her hair. But that might be too contrived. I'll have to think about it.
Today is also the birthday of great American playwright Sam Shepard. He's either 64 or 65. I recall fondly reading True West, Tooth of Crime, and Fool for Love as a junior and senior in high school, wishing that our drama group had the talent or the cajones to put these on stage as opposed to a "safe" musical.
Anyway, my thoughts will be all day on the painting, the redheaded muse, the kind postings by my friends Marcelle (see "Philogynist" below) and Samantha (see "...And Painter II" below) and the thought that both of those ladies are quite worthy of a good New York egg cream.
Other thoughts float through my mind, but none that ought to be shared at this time or in a public forum.
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