I turned on the lights, the griddle, the fan in the studio this morning at ten o’clock. Then I went into the house to stretch (I had just returned from a run) and then shower. If all went well, I’d be painting within a half hour. But Chas whined, something about wanting to play Bionicle games on the computer (something Ford and Dwight turned him onto) and I, in my defiance, refused to cave. I think this established his rebellion for the rest of the day. Twelve hours later, they are asleep in the bed and I am in the studio, the griddle and fan still in operation after hours of neglect, the windows open to pitch black cold outside. I spend ten minutes working manically with quick-shifting wax, which is hardening too rapidly in the frigid night air. And my fingers are numb. There is no way I can work tonight, I resign. It would be so much easier to paint if I could take it wherever I went. Instead, I leave my expectations on the table where I drafted them this morning, and walk towards the scanner holding the only handiwork I was able to accompish, which wasn’t within the course of today but within another scant ten minutes of yeserday.