self-portrait. one of many.

no, I can't quite explain the odd compulsions. at this point, I don't even try anymore. I chalk it up to being an artist, it's a lovely excuse for all sorts of odd behaviours.

at one time I thought the fascination with reflective surfaces and self-portraits was an unhealthy fascination with self, and I'm not saying I'm not intensely interested in how I work, if I don't attempt to figure that out what good is being here for, really? if I don't in some small way maybe learn to understand what it means to be me. and maybe that helps you/frees or challenges you, or comforts you in your own attempts.

but I'm no great beauty and don't really care if I catch myself at unflattering angles anymore, or if I'm even identifiable, I don't think it's a record of self I'm trying to leave in some of this, I don't know what it is.

and if I had someone else willing to pose so I could catch their reflection in olive oil in a cast iron frying pan I'd be just as happy. it's not even that it has to be a person, or anything at all reflected, I suppose. but the fascination with the way the picture changed when the oil warmed, what accounts for that?

oh I don't know. it's been a noisy day and I can't think, my head's absolutely full of noise and other people's messes. it's a day I have to remind myself how lucky I am that family keeps me from packing a bag and seeing what's a little further on down the road.

not that I'm unhappy today, and not that it matters. it's just been a noisy day, and I'm looking forward to nothing more raucous than frogsong.