Blue fingertips

Painty handed I type. J's gone with Lola to fetch her rv in Albuquerque. Carla almost went with them. I said it would be like Thelma and Louise and...Thelma. Lola laughed and mentioned a scene from the movie where some asshole male specimin gets his come uppances by these two modern heroines. She is a delight and now she will be moving into our little carnival. Love it when she gets a colloquialism (sp?)slightly wrong. The other day at Carla and Michaels rv she said, "That guy really gave me the woollies. Nobody corrected her and I'm sure we'll do the same if we end up adventuring down in South America with her.

So sitting here in my rv, at the orange kitchen table, actually chutney colored, dogs lounging, kinda sweet but a little twinge of uneasiness that I always get when left to my own devices. J is such an anchor to me and I'm sure if she were gone for a month I would probably try tippling some booze again, and end up in hell. Again. Why is it I am so tempted to drink when she is gone? Even the scope I gargle with to ease my tooth that has needed a root canal for over two years now wants to accidentally slide down my throat. What the fuck? Painting is going great, selling great, but this raw emptiness in my gut that wants to be filled with booze. The warm melt of whisky that empties all thought, drains all pain, until the pain it brings is far worse than anything... I'm trying to meditate in the desert in the morning to deal with my tangle of endless loop nonsense thought. And sometimes I really get there, to the place of absolute no thought, just breath, and it is...empty. I guess that's what it's supposed to be.