My lungs are sad

I am wearing the worst jeans on the planet. You will never see me in public in these jeans. I can't even look at myself in the mirror. I will donate these awful things soon. 

I am recovering from being ill this week. You know what that does to my mind... it runs roughshod over me highlighting every fear, weakness, and every regret and mistake I have ever made. Such a bullshit thing for my brain to do when I am already down.

I watch a replay of World News Tonight with David Muir and then think "well, that wasn't good for my immune system." I turn to social media for a break where I am then sold a million optimisations for my kind of brain alongside celebrity gossip and random shit for the outraged and perimenopausal. 

How's your week going? I painted a picture of my inflamed lungs but you aren't going to see it - just like these fucking hideous jeans... 

I love you. I miss you. 

Funny faces, piss and vinegar

My dad Stephen Chapman died on March 5th. He was 90 years old.

My dad was made up of words and music

A house full of books and records

Built of films and movie star trivia

A wild nest of knowledge

Jonathan Winters meets Raymond Carver

Speaking in tongues

Homebrew beer caps exploding and hitting underneath the basement stairs

He was a charming character

Driving gloves and no stops

Old Milwaukee and a book in bed in the afternoon

"Sunrise, Sunset" on a turquoise painted piano

Funny voices, laughter and thunder

Funny faces, piss and vinegar

Opinions, passions, and outrage

A complex collection

Wild loud jazz

Enunciation and projection

An abstract painting come to life

He wasn't like the other dads. He was something else

and I love him exactly as that.

I love you, Dad. Thank you for your encouragement and understanding of me as a painter.

___________________________________________

I turned 53 the next day.

You can read next week's post here.