The need for LJ sort of died in me. I don't know why. In the past I'd scramble to write down every single little thing, horrified of forgetting; of a loss of my own self.
Now I'm just sort of mellow. It doesn't matter to me. I see things differently now.
Visiting my Grandma on I think maybe Saturday or Friday, I saw things so differently. The trees breathed. Every detail in my mother's face, magnified and then blurred out again, becoming one. Forms and shadows showed themselves beautifully, although all I was looking at was a trash can passing on the street. The back tires of a truck spinning. I wanted to draw them so I could remember, but I know now that that image is burned in my mind perfectly, flawlessly. I won't forget.
Listening to Leaving Hope (NIN), for a second, watching the trees breathe, I'm positive that I reached nirvana. It was an experience..

Then we came to my Grandma's apartment, took the dog, and went to the beach. It was drizzling, and slowly it began to rain harder. No one else was at the beach, and I was overwhelmed and compelled to run. So I did. I ran, I chased my dog, I threw it handfuls of sand that it chased after but was then shocked to have disappear beneath the receding tide, I did cartwheels, I jumped, I did a barrel roll (awaiting 4chan reference). All the while the drums beat on and the dull voice of the singer of Enigma of the Absolute, Dead Can Dance, droned on it my head, pounding. But that monotone voice I found beautiful, and I smiled, and soon even in it's monotone I discovered the tones, the highs and falls, the sheer beauty.

I sound like such a stoner.

Grandma gave me a giant bristol sketch pad that I can throw down watercolors on, as well as a bunch of canvases. She offered to let me stay, and I wanted to, but I didn't have a change of clothes. Next time, I'll have a change, and I'll stay and paint with her.
She paints flowers. Bouquets that she gathers herself. I remember she went onto a person's yard when she was staying with us and rips their flowers out, she waited until after dark.
She must be senile, but I love her for some reason.

Today, dad took me to his studio, where he works. Everyone was done with work for the summer, but he still came back to paint. It was the perfect place. It was a warehouse. The smell of sawdust. A neighboring Korea company renting out part of the warehouse called "Do Do Apparel".
Dad looked so happy, so eager to show me his work place. He showed me the paintings he had been working on, not even fully dry; he held them up with such care, dirtying his fingers. Abstract. Large, bright blobs of color and stain and gold and even floor polish that dried on hard.
He showed me his office, opened the fridge to give me a Coke and to complain about it's emptiness: nothing but condiments. I promised to bake them brownies.
He showed me his computer in the office, his boss's artwork. A giant book on Da Vinci that his boss purchases from the internet.
Then he painted, and so did I. It was my first time. I focused on watching the way colors blended. How brush strokes differ in application. How to apply pressure, how to use your wrist. I painted a lilly, blown up to show the detailed bright blue spots jump out against the dull, monotone red, yellow, and gray of the petals.
He gave me one of his paintings. I chose to keep another one, too, because he disliked it and said he'd throw it out.
I couldn't paint anymore because Mark called and told me that he spoke with Hunter, and my mind was too distracted and uneasy. I read a book as my father finished his painting.
We left. He showed me the other place he worked.