I have opened the third storage box containing arts and crafts crap. It contains a lot of finished artwork. Also contains a ton of literal junk. Ziplock bags full of weird or interesting small objects I found in parking lots or streets. Or things my husband found at his construction sites.
The first thing I pulled out to investigate was a vintage green box designed to store something the size of checks in monthly compartments. It is filled with the receipts from every trip to the grocery store I made in 2014.
I’m just going to close this box back up. I don’t feel like dealing with any of this today.
I have stopped organizing things.
I am experiencing physical and emotional pain.
I am excruciatingly tired.
Having completed the sorting and organizing of art tools and supplies living on my work table, I moved on to the piles of who knows what taking up space on top of the art supply storage boxes I’ve not opened in years.
I am already regretting my decision to not stop once the table was in order.
My collection of favorite drawing pencils, every last one of them older than I am and having once been my father's favorite drawing pencils, is growing worryingly minimal. I don’t want to use them all up and not have them anymore, for sentimental reasons, so I suppose it is finally time for me to actually buy my own damn drawing pencils.
I have spent the entirety of my day thus far cleaning up my creative workspace. Not just removing the debris of life that stacks up on it, because it’s a convenient location to dump things like junk mail, receipts, and odd things that don’t have official homes. No, this time I’m doing a deep dive.
I’ve even thrown things into the trash can. I’ve also found things I forgot I had. Like where did that watercolor sketchbook come from? I don’t remember buying it? At the moment, all my palettes are soaking in the sink, as are my glass mono-printing plates, and it’s time for lunch.