towering crates

The studio is filling up with crates of paints, sketch books, brushes, books, artwork, portfolios and assorted stuff without which I think I'll perish in my new home in northern climes. Why I think I need two ipods, God alone knows, but hey. The big ipod holds everything I've ever loved, but can't dance to, and the wee one holds shit-kicking stuff to make me shift my lazy ass at the gym.

Well, that'll be the reason then, eh? However, the leashes and leads and cables I now need to feed and restore and download stuff to these little tyrants is becoming a Gordian knot of mythical proportions. Not to mention the leashes and cables that the laptop might require, and the mobile and the digital camera and, and, and... Heck, a watercolour palette and brushes look rereshingly old-tech by comparison. Haven't even begun to think about packing knitting stuff, which, considering my destination, is nothing short of heresy.

I feel like I've spent the last two days disengaging from life on the mainland. Casting off nautically and, ironically, knittingly. My fiddle sits in a corner of the studio, wondering if i'll remember to take it with me. Damn straight. I may not be able to play worth a damn, but with six weeks of solitude ahead of me, I aim to improve.

It's dark out here in the studio. It's nearly eleven o'clock at night. My four new spreads for the dragons books are drafted out on stretched watercolour paper and ready to go. Tick. The crates are nearly full. Tick. My sketches are off the walls and into a portfolio. Tick. I feel like a ghost in my own life, neither here nor there.

Tomorrow I'll have to engage with my wardrobe. For that, I'll probably require sedated.