Yowza.

Now see, this is the kind of reading I like to wake up to.

Especially this excerpt:

“Creative people have a great deal of physical energy, but they’re also often quiet and at rest. They work long hours, with great concentration, while projecting an aura of freshness and enthusiasm…This does not mean that creative people are hyperactive, always “on.” In fact, they rest often and sleep a lot. The important thing is that they control their energy; it’s not ruled by the calendar, the dock, an external schedule. When necessary, they can focus it like a laser beam; when not, creative types immediately recharge their batteries. They consider the rhythm of activity followed by idleness or reflection very important for the success of their work.

             Creative people tend to be both extroverted and introverted. We’re usually one or the other,   either preferring to be in the thick of crowds or sitting on the sidelines and observing the passing show. In fact, in psychological research, extroversion and introversion are considered the most stable personality traits that differentiate people from each other and that can be reliability measured. Creative individuals, on the other hand, seem to exhibit both traits simultaneously.”

This information makes me happy.

It’s like a flicker of light shining on me. Us. Severely misunderstood creative ones. Us who make no sense in our existence otherwise. The flip side is that this very description sounds like manic/bipolar symptoms. Hmm, so that’s why a coworker once suggested that I try medication. Not to mention random folks I’ve met and–ahem–collided with.

But reading this was spiritual.

Yep.

Me likey.

Triple A, My Friend

OMGosh. Can I say how much I LOVE Triple A??!! And no, this is certainly not a paid advertisement.

My car wouldn’t start yesterday. This is what went down…

I had pulled over into a shopping center parking lot because of a huge downpour slash thunderstorm. (Sidenote: I used to be terribly afraid of t-storms as a child and I would crawl under my bed where there were springs and metal wires and I would get my hair caught in aforementioned metal and one of my grandparents would have to come and remove the mattress to my twin bed and once they had to cut me out via hair loss. Now I’m down to 1/4 that afraid of t-storms. Instead of crawling beneath a bed or furniture I cringe really hard and tighten my shoulders and squinch up my eyes and ask forgiveness for my sins.)

So anyhoos, I pull over and wait the ugly angry storm out and since it’s like 1,000 degrees outside I kept turning my car “half-on” and getting some a/c. Wellll, seems my aging battery didn’t like that too much, for when the storm was finally over I turn the key and klumpt. Nothing. Nadda. Ugly. Me. Skeered. Panicky. My car’s life flashed before me. I wondered if I’d made that last will & testament to Dog Town. I quickly mused on the suburb I was in, how far away I was from my friend’s house that I’m currently staying at. (“Currently staying”–that’s an oxymoron.) Crazy, irrational thoughts traipsed through my mind.

I think a horror movie of a girl who broke down on the side of a dark road near an alley in Modesto in 1978 in a red Datsun on a hillside at 2:48 in the morning when she should’ve just left the party earlier passed through my head. Nevermind that it was daytime and I was nowhere near Modesto.

Breaking down slash having car trouble always, always unravels me. Suddenly the car I could love so much is a big metal burden of magnificent proportions. I snarl at it and talk mean to it. Then I panic because I know it hears me and could act even uglier. I tell it to act right or else. And then I purr at it like a kitty and stroke the dashboard and coax it to start right now or else!

So I call Triple A. (Ever notice that people often write “Triple AAA”?) They say they’ll be there “by 3:06” which was sort of funny to me. 3:06? Not 3:00 or 3:30 but “3:06.” So I sit there in my burdensome car and I think all kinds of neurotic thoughts.

What if it’s something major. Like the engine?

What if it’s the alternator? OMGosh. I don’t have alternator money!

What if Triple A never comes and I’m still sitting here at midnight and the shopping center’s closed and the police plant some stuff on me and find a reason to arrest me and–

Who’s that guy over there in the plaid shorts? And plaid shirt? Simultaneously?? My eyes hurt.

Geez, I’m hungry. I could use a hoagie right now.

Good thing I peed before this happened.

What if I have to get towed? Glad I have Triple A PLUS.

What if everything under my hood is broken?! How much does a bike cost? Gas sure is expensive these days.

I wish I was rich. I don’t care what people say about money doesn’t make you happy. TRY ME.

Gosh, this mosquito bite is really itching right now.

I wonder what the square root of 65 is.

Then, as if heaven has heard my neuroses, the Triple A van comes rolling into the parking lot and I run to him. I run to him like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard. I’m this close to opening my arms and jumping in his lap. And kissing him on his cheek. And proposing marriage. Or offering him lunch with the coins I have in my kiddie cup, my emergency fund that purchases Slurpees and closes many poverty gaps on the road to fundraising slash art life.

But I don’t kiss or land on his lap or anything like that. He gives me a jump. My battery’s dead. He tells me not to stop on my way home for anything unless I want to need help again. Not those words, but you get the picture. I was gushing that it was “just” the battery. I was so happy to hear that engine turn over once he put those jumper cables on my weak baby metal. As I drove I had post-jump neurotic thoughts.

A year ago I had enough money to just buy another battery. What am I doing with this poverty art life? Why haven’t I had better “luck” yet? Is God peeved at me? Gosh, I’ve bitten my nails down so far I don’t even recognize my hands anymore. I sure wish I could just pull over and get a donut but, wait, I can’t cut the car off. That guy right there driving the Jaquar, I wonder what HE has in the bank. I’ll bet he doesn’t have to worry about the cost of a dang car battery, not to mention having two nails in one tire. I wonder if he’s hiring. Maybe I could do an old fashioned lemonade stand to raise money. I’m pathetic. I hate life. No, wait, I love life. I hate this. I wish I would just win this radio contest. I could really use paper money right now. My ankle itches but I’m driving and can’t scratch it. That would be awkward. And perhaps dangerous.

Oy. What a summer so far.

An Artist Village

I wonder what it would be like to have a town filled with just artists. Would there be major crime? Would there be ridiculously colorful houses and cars and fences? Would there be anything solid colored or would there be color and texture everywhere? Would it make us yearn for the simplicity of gray or taupe? Would it be a peaceful place or would we all drive each other mad? Would Crazy Bob in the same crusted overalls still be  cool when he lives next door or would his stinch finally cave my nostrils?
I wonder. If there was a town filled with just writers would it be quiet, quiet, quiet? Would entire blocks of houses be stoic for hours with only one light shining through the window at night from one room? Neighbors wouldn’t see each other for days, maybe weeks? Every so often someone would run madly from their house screaming “They want it! They want it! I sold Guerillas in the Attic to Harper & Row!!!!!!!!!!” 

Colors & weirdos & writers & crafters & quiet. Sounds like my kind of place. Minus the severely weird. 

Could this place exist? Perhaps between rural and metropolis. After all, some would need to get to their therapists without hitchhiking.  

Some people say this place already exists.

It’s called Berkeley.

Two-Toned Arms

Note to self:

If you’re going to be out in the sun all day you should probably remove your watch from your wrist because at the end of the day you’ll have a bright line on your wrist from where your watch was. Also, if you insist on wearing t-shirts it would be a good idea to roll up the sleeves so that your arms aren’t two shades.

While I’m at it I would like to inform myself that a two-toned body is just weird. My legs haven’t seen sunshine since, oh, 2007 so the top of me is one shade and the bottom half is a brighter shade.

I am officially two toned. On the flip side, I am walking art.

Toes. Legs. Hurt.

So now that it’s warmer I’ve been canvassing the D.C. area selling art on foot.   Oy. The Pain.  Gosh, I’m merely walking–WHY AM I SO SORE AT THE END OF THE DAY?! It’s not like I’m climbing cliffs or scaling buildings. I’M WALKING OVER HERE. Eeeesh.

My toes hurt. My ankles hurt. My legs hurt–sections of my thighs hurt. I think I felt a pain in my kneecap last week. Sometimes my back hurts or my shoulders because I usually don’t realize I’ve had them scrunched up around my neck for most of the day while I smile that Cheshire the Cat grin at total strangers who I desperately need to purchase the art already.

Truthfully, my ultimate goal right now is to buy a house that works for me. Quiet. Peaceful. No mortgage is the goal. Yep, I said it. Let it marinate in the juices of your comprehension. It’s possible, so why not? I refuse to let a 30-year, bank owned, The Man controlled, mounting interest evilness loom over me into the prime of my life. No way, Jose, eh-eh. Not this artist. I need stability, dang-it. I need fresh produce and a longterm bed and gentle neighbors and a art room and–well, you get the picture.

By the way, epsom salt rocks.

Other Artists

I’m kind of bent on whether or not I like to hang out exclusively/primarily with fellow artists. I mean, it’s one thing to mesh ideas; it’s another to steal them. I’ve had several artsy “friends” literally steal ideas right out from under me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, have the AUDACITY to showcase my idea to me.  True balls and thievery. Guilty balls. I’ve become slightly paranoid–ok, seriously paranoid–hanging around other artists at times.

I made t-shirts in college–handpainted funky slogans, etc., only for a close friend (and a cousin!) to have a sudden interest in t-shirt life.

I made polymer clay creations only to have others take a sudden interest in clay.

I started painting not only canvases but furniture (coffee tables & chairs mostly) only to have–you guessed it–thievery.

Oy. Oy. Oy.

Who are these people I’ve been acquainted with?

Note to self:  Find new friends. Pull back on certain relatives.

NY, NY

I’ll be heading back to NYC this summer to sell some art and raise some funds so that I can eventually buy The Compound.  That’s what I call my ultimate place to live and settle down: The Compound. It just sounds appropriate for someone who hates noise and neighbor drama and sharing property lines and seeing beaters sitting in nearby yards and PACK RAT thingamajiggies. This right-brain needs solace like water. I’m planning on kissing apartment life and all former vexing residential lifestyles (rented rooms,  longterm broken down Artist couch guest, mortgage terror) good-bye.

In The Compound there will be a huge gate with state-of-the-art security. There’ll be dogs (Weimeranders, Labs, miniature pinscher) for comfort and protection. There’ll be a recording studio for poetry and spontaneous combustions. There’ll be an in-house art studio. There’ll be an exercise room with a Bowflex to work off all of the starchy foods housed in my stainless steel behemoth with built-in ice maker. 

There will be bliss before I die, dang-it.