Yesterday I did one of those things artists call "distractions". Distractions are anything that keeps one from painting. I cleaned house, one of my least favorite activities. When done, my back hurt and I was in the throes of an allergy attack. I was also bored out of my mind. Of course, I do like a clean house, and I must say I didn't have dust bunnies under the sofa--they were more like jackrabbits. My uncle and I once had a conversation about dust. His wife died, then his cleaning lady died, and he never hired another one, and he was clueless about cleaning. He said, "You can do it after I'm gone." (And I did) We discussed where dust goes. I mean, in a house like his, where he never dusted, ever, why didn't the dust keep getting deeper and deeper? But no, it reaches a certain point and stops. Calculating the years after his maid died, dust should have been a foot deep.
So what is more fun? Standing on a grassy bank, hot, sweating, and being bitten by mosquitoes, painting a picture like this one, or making my house all nice and pristine? You got it. Come on, skeeters!