essence

There was a Disney movie on; something with Dean Jones or Kurt Russell or Fred MacMurray.

I was on my second bottle of wine.

I was painting.

Didn’t know exactly what I was painting, but brush was definitely touching canvas every now and then.

I started out painting a still life, but it ended up looking more like a still born, so I painted over it, stood back, eyeing the colors.

What colors there were.

It looked like a puddle of vomit.

I decided the hell with it. I was tired of trying to be creative. Didn’t have the patience or the talent.

So I walked outside with my bottle of wine and stared at the moon, thinking, Jesus, feels like November out here, even though it was April.

I looked at my watch. It was eight forty-five.

I was tired, had a headache, and a canker sore.

I thought about my mom’s final words on her deathbed: "I did what was needed and didn’t wait for anyone else to do it."

Somebody in the next yard was saying, "I know it sounds cornball, but we have to be OK with us inside first."

Someone else said: "I know that. But how do I get to that point, is my problem."

Someone else said: "It starts with self. ‘To be or not to be’. Shakespeare. Think about it. And be, be you! Read Dr. Phil’s ‘Self Matters.’"

Then the voices trailed off.

I think they went down by the riverside to smoke some pot and reevaluate their lives.

I would have liked to have gone with them but I really wasn’t in the mood.

That damn painting was still on my mind.

Why couldn’t I learn?

A ladybug suddenly landed on my right shoulder.

I was about to blow her away but figured this was where she was meant to be right now, crawling down my arm, navigating her way through my arm hairs.

Why disrupt the natural order of things?

It started to sprinkle.

I looked at the sky.

It was smooth and black, but I could tell it was doing a slow burn.

I felt a breeze on the nape of my neck and raindrops on the crown of my head.

Meanwhile, the ladybug had traveled toward my hand.

Her trek had thus far been quite uneventful, but she suddenly appeared to be disorientated. Flustered. She spread her wings and flew away into the silky night, through the drops of rain.

I went inside to reevaluate my painting.