40

I was never worried about turning 40. I was a little worried about not turning 40, so in year 37 I started painting with devotion and making impulsive travel decisions. In year 38 I decided to crack my heart open and see if anything was still burning in there. There was, and it's been hard getting the edges to fit back together during year 39.

So here I am, not dead (as of 6:04am). Maybe the things that didn't come to pass still can. There’s a long list of people I still want to paint.

40 seems good. My neck is still clinging on to the bottom of my face, if a bit more nervously, and all my original parts are still accounted for (although my knees are held on with athletic tape). Early in the year, I had a mishap with some varnish and my heart tried to stop working, but in the last few months the little heart rate monitor on my watch has gone from scary erratic spikes to a nice steady ribbon. I wear a chemical mask and keep my varnish/linseed bottles sorted properly now.

I want to say this is going to be my year, my decade, but saying things like that is an invitation to be smited. I am not looking to have a rock dropped on me from space. But I have hope, and love, and thats a lot to work with.