My thoughts dart here and there. I am at the whim of my aging brain. I smell an orange and it triggers a memory! All at once I am a boy back in school, suffering under the cruelty of Professor Olliphant! Her horrible wigs and the smell of old wool. The wool reminds me that I was once a man of position. And then I am thinking of my own cruelties, terrible deeds, performed in the name of science, progress, or profit. And then I am flooded with regrets and guilt. Then just as suddenly I am hungry or thinking about my knees or a nap.
And if I could quiet my mind, and apply myself to a task - say painting - like today - it is of little use. I find it odd that a time when I thought I might enjoy some rest and expand on my paintings, that my eyes are not as sharp as they need be, and my hands quiver unexpectedly. The smell of the paints assaults my nose, and muddles my thoughts. Did they always smell so?
Still, I have begun work on a canvas. I have no name for it yet.