Mr. Man and I were running around the house and yard playing. It is our favorite activity after all.
Through the living room, down the hall, out the garage door across the yard and into the woods. Then Mr. Man jumps up on a stump and says, "Hey dad, watch this move." He jumps in the air kicking his feet to one side while he punches the wind. "How do like my ninja skills? You have to practice your skills or the bad guys will get ya. Let me see your skills dad."
Believe it or not I have never let Mr. Man see Napoleon Dynamite.
I busted a few ninja moves that we both laughed at and agreed that I was in danger of the bad guys. My skills need some work.
The worst part of this is that I can't stop thinking about my skills. No, not my ninja skills.
I really have none. In my 40 or so years of earthly existence, 10 of them have been devoted to baseball. Although over lapping another 22 years have been devoted to art. Making art, studying art, selling art. 30 years of living in a fantasy world.
Precious and I have been talking about what to do with our lives, which is what brought all of this on. When we get where we're going, what do we do? Obviously I want to continue my journey in the world of fine art but what if for some reason I couldn't? What would I do?
I have pondered and puzzed til my ponderer hurt and my puzzler was sore. Then it dawned on me.
I've got no skills. I'm not really qualified to do anything. I have spent my entire life not really doing anything. I talk to people, I paint, I talk about painting and other people that paint. I can't sing, I can't dance and I'm too fat to fly.
I wonder if it's too late for me to become a pro bowler?
Calling Dr. Bob, I think I'm going to have an anxiety attack.