Sitting on the porch watching kids play in the street running in and out the warm rays of the setting sun I sketch and dream of possible paintings. The downy tufts of dandelions bring back my own days of playing in the street, running wild for no other reason than to be running. Swiping at the dandelions as we race up over the curb, nearly crashing through a hedge into forbidden territory owned by the most misunderstood dog in the neighborhood. His barks were pleas to include him in the games we played. We were warn that he would bite if we get too close, but his rope broke one afternoon and all he did was chase after the soft ball we played with. He surrendered it to the first extended hand then backed up waiting for the next hit to come his way. He was also included when we split a Hersey bar... His mistress still warned us to keep out of his yard though.
I sketched the kids playing and thought about my friends now grown with grandkids. Like so many of my sketches, they were a mix of the kids in the street and the ghost of my lost childhood. I think of Josephine and what she might be doing in Arkansas. These good thoughts and feeling will play into the painting on my easel, even if the subject has nothing to do with what I'm sketching. Sketching enhances my senses. Though I may be drawing a tree or an old shed, once I reach the zone I need for creating, it will help with whatever I choose to paint.
I sketch a girl leaning against a tree and suddenly I see another girl I had a crush on 60 some years ago appearing in my sketch. Tomorrow I'll look at the sketches, and some older ones, to charge the juices that will carry me through my still-life of carnations.