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I came to a strange realization in the shower tonight: I love to have paint on me. All the time. In strange places. I wash it off because I’m supposed to, but I realized that I get a little shiver of pleasure when I look down and discover that there’s a splotch on my knee. How did it get there?! And it should be under my fingernails and on my elbow and between my fourth toe and the little nub that’s a sorry excuse for my baby toe. Seeing it brings me joy for reasons I’m not sure I understand. Perhaps it reminds me that I’m creative. Perhaps I like that it smells of accomplishment. Perhaps I like that it’s a little secret, but one that sometimes gets noticed and alerts the vigilant person to the fact that I play with paint. Paint on my knuckle reminds me that I got to make something today, and that hopefully I’ll get to make something tomorrow – that I’ll get to bring something into the world that wasn’t there before. It’s a little dot or fleck or smear of magic possibility.