who’s recycled?

I pass by a bougainvillea on the sidewalk while bringing papery refuse out to the recycle bin, awaiting its San Diego afternoon pickup. This bougainvillea is a different and intriguing color – something between a light rust and a peach, further tinted with three days beyond Halloween. If I had my phone I’d likely snap a picture, maybe capture a subject worthy of the attention of my fifth-grade painting style — for after the sickness passes. If the sickness passes. Generally I don’t bring my phone on recycling runs.

Somewhere over the past year I developed this crazy addiction to peanut better. My dance had been with almond butter for years, but this year something about peanut butter came to take my hand. Crunchy, salted, organic. My favorite brands from Ralph’s and Walmart, an organic, crunchy but unsalted number from Sprout’s also finding its way into my heart. And I say my heart versus my mouth with its taste buds and throat and stomach because that’s the way it feels. Truth forever coming in first here at Couch Surfing @70.

I’ve lost a bunch of work the last couple of months, mostly from the young woman I support the most days being out with a serious medical condition – this last week me as sick as any dog with or without buddha nature. And something of an offer has strolled in as a result. Resurrect, re-invent, completely for the first time dive entirely into an artist’s life. In my case, here, rapidly approaching 75 years on this crazy, granite planet, become my ancient, wild, child-hearted, original-faced artist. Maybe its the money thing. Perhaps it’s a call from someplace more primal.

Who cares? It feels like a really good answer to, “Now what?”