Some of my best moments have come while painting in the garage. Music blasting from old speakers is always too loud but just loud enough to drown out my own singing.
There are those certain songs that make me grip my brush tighter and move faster until I resort to just throwing colors. I have a theory that we never really grow out of having temper tantrums. We just find ways to disguise them.
My bare feet get dirty on the concrete floor. Paint gets on my jeans and up my arms. I’m colored by accidents but secretly I’d like to be painted all over.
No one’s there to see me pour paint from a bucket onto my canvas and spread it around with my hands. No, it’s not modern art. I’ll make it look like something recognizable. But I’ll get there by finger painting.
Eventually the project ends. What’s left is a piece of art and a mess in the garage.
Soon I’ll find another project. I’ll have new refreshments to be replaced with brushes, another set of songs I can’t get out of my head and a new something or someone that I never say anything about unless it’s with paint.