DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONT.

Shit. What am I doing here?

Everything was fine two hours ago. Really.

Then I had the strangest sensation, not unlike ice-out on a river in March. A creaking groaning sound followed by a percussive popping sound.

Relax it is only a bit of poetic licence, I am entitled to that much in my own home. Last time I looked anyway.

The central question I am asking myself is where in hell did my endurance go? Two lousy hours and I feel utterly whipped. I mean, I could go for hours and hours without stopping even a year ago. Old fucking age?

You have to be kidding me.

I was honestly in the "zone" as the kids say, (oops, yup, old age-ism...Gah!) with the tool of my choice, just tearing up the joint. I mean I have four pieces to finish within the next month.. not likely but close enough for government work. As of yesterday, it looked petty good. One piece will have to be a bit smaller than I'd like, but that's alright if it's really good. It will be. No doubt, just a bit smaller than I would like.

Anyone familiar with my work knows that I put a lot of myself into it, and so it tends to take a bit of time.

That's ok with me and is for the most part, ok with other people.

Am I just expecting to much form myself to soon? Is there an underlying problem physically I am unaware of....some sort of immune failure Shit?

You know, if you ask any real artist they will tell you about that "place", that strange wonderful feeling of bi-location, a kind of being on automatic and looking over your own shoulder in a kind of blank wonder.

Love it. Live for it, almost NEED it, like a drug.

I simply felt it fade away like melting ice.

I have a weird job. Maybe I should give myself a bit more time to get back into the whole thing. You know, be NICE to myself. Or, perhaps I should lock and load and get up there and kick artistic ass.

Something like that.

M.Z.