April 26th, 2004
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plod, plod, sploosh


A weekend of inking. Inking and inking. I have a permanent black stain on the middle finger of my left hand. Lots of late nights and listening to music at the drafting table. Food becomes a formality, you consume just to sustain yourself. 96 pages. It seems like the pile does not get any smaller. It does, albeit slowly. (I like the word albeit.)
“Albeit so masked, Madam, I love the truth.”
- Tennyson.
And so I crunch on the final pages for the kid’s activity book. Once all the pages are inked I can start on the colour. I will admit here to being tired. There is a point with every creative project where your energy seems to fade. Your mind looks ahead to all the other creative projects that you want to start. (I have this with books too, I start eyeing the pile of books on my nightstand and they all look infinitely more interesting than the one I am in.) But I plod on. (I like the word plod. It just sounds like a “laboured step”. Like someone is wearing galoshes that are way too big. Plod, plod, sploosh).
Galoshes. How i would like to don mine, with big wool socks on and run out into the rain today. I would jump in all the mud puddles and hunt for frogs. I would lie down on the boardwalk in the middle of the beaver pond and stare into the water. The water lilies are starting to make their way up to the surface. Soon they will spread their leaves and make little condos for the frogs to hang out on. I wonder if the frogs get all excited about that? I wonder if they notice how good it all smells after the rain?

 
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