Today was one of those uneventful days that almost feels suspiciously calm. Nothing dramatic happened. No big breakthroughs. No disasters. Just a quiet, slightly boring day at home.
My brother came over and we spent some time watching movies. Normally that kind of relaxed downtime would be pleasant, but boredom can be dangerous territory when you’re trying to quit smoking. When there’s nothing happening, the mind starts wandering, and that old thought creeps in: a cigarette would fix this moment.
The urge showed up, but this time it didn’t win. I noticed it, let it hang around for a bit, and then let it pass. No cigarette.
Of course, Whiskey Kitty joined us for the movie. Whenever there’s a gathering, she seems to believe she’s the main attraction. She walked from person to person like a tiny celebrity making the rounds at a party, laying down dramatically beside each of us and purring like a miniature engine.
To my surprise, she seemed to like my brother the most.
I have to admit that was a little discouraging.
Mom and I have what you might call a peaceful competition for Whiskey’s affection. After all, she was my Christmas present from Mom. So I feel like I have a certain claim in the matter. I make sure Whiskey knows I’m the one who feeds her, cares for her, and cleans her litter box. In my mind that should count for something.
Mom, of course, has her own reasons for needing a little extra love from the cat. Not long after Whiskey came into the house, Mom’s cat Herbie became very sick. He was suffering badly, and eventually we had to put him to sleep. Losing a pet leaves a quiet hole in the house.
So now Whiskey has become the emotional support system for the entire family.
And somehow, no matter how much attention we each demand from her, she manages to have enough love for everyone.
Cats are like that.
Meanwhile, my brain has been busy at night. I’ve been having recurring nightmares about not being prepared for my art events this year, especially WonderCon and the LA Times Festival of Books. In these dreams I’m standing at my booth and nothing is selling, or I can't get into the event because I'm not prepared, or the hotel can't find my reservation or something else has gone terribly wrong.
Classic stress dreams.
The strange thing is that sometimes these dreams actually help. In the middle of the anxiety, my mind starts working through solutions. I wake up realizing things I need to organize, fix, or prepare. It’s as if my brain is running a chaotic little planning committee while I sleep.
During the daytime, the artist’s self-doubt has been creeping in as well.
I’m not very happy with my latest paintings. In fact, I’m worried they’re not good enough to sell. Some days I even look at them and think they don't even belong in a gallery.
Every artist knows that voice. It sits on your shoulder like a grumpy critic with a permanent frown.
At the same time, I’m getting a strange satisfaction from painting them. That’s the part that matters. This new series is experimental territory for me. I’m painting portraits of outsider artists, many of them people who struggled with mental illness, and I’m doing it in an outsider-style approach myself.
So the work feels a little wild and unpredictable. I honestly don’t know what the outcome will be.
Right now they’re getting almost no likes on Facebook. But that might just be the algorithm playing its usual games. Social media has a mysterious way of hiding things one day and spotlighting them the next.
Either way, the paintings are doing something important.
They’re keeping my hands busy and my mind focused.
And every hour I spend painting is an hour I’m not smoking.
So even on a quiet, slightly boring day filled with doubts, nightmares, and a cat who might prefer my brother over me, there’s still progress happening.
The art continues.
The kitty purrs
The cravings pass.
And the smoke stays away.
Once again, I got this. 🐈🎨🚭
by Dan and Bonkers
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