I love the smell of oil paint

I am a tool. I punish myself for things because I'm stupid. I love to paint. I'm not the best at it, but I love it.

So why don't I do it? Why do I punish myself?

I set up my crap-tastic easel tonight. Peeled open my palette. Dried dabs of paint from my last painting venture in Vermont 7 months ago looked up at me. Oil paint takes a long time to dry. And if it's thick enough, like some of it is on my palette, 7 months later is still good enough to peel back the dried layers and reach paint underneath.

I prepped the canvas a little. Just laying color down so I don't have a white ground to play on. The whole time smiling. I think it's the smell. It brings back memories fresh as the day they formed in my mind. It focuses the contentment and concentration and frustration that accompanied countless hours in the studio. It tickles the laughter from the family I found. It rips open the wounds I thought healed. It reminds me of the beach...