Requiem for October 6

This week I'm celebrating the three-month anniversary of my blog.

I began blogging just for a lark. I was building a new website in late September and the website template had a blog page. I thought, "Why not give blogging a try and see what happens?" I was curious whether I could sustain a blog. I mean, I certainly talk a lot (anyone who's met me will back me up on that character description), but posting a blog entry on a regular basis is another cup o' tea.

A few days after I began blogging, the Saint Paul Art Crawl descended upon my neighborhood. I rarely open my studio during the Art Crawl, but I usually put a painting or two outside my door. Halfway through the evening I was  drinking a glass of wine and talking to my neighbors as the crowds ebbed and flowed around us. Suddenly I caught sight of a writer I'm acquainted with. I hadn't talked to him in years, but I see his writing here and there and am always impressed. He's the kind of writer who makes you think you should give up writing because there's no way you could ever write as well as he does. 

The writer walked up and examined my painting. "You've been painting," he said.  

"Yes," I said. "Painting is my life."  

 He turned and looked me in the eyes. "And you've been blogging."

 I was filled with sudden panic. Someone was actually reading my blog? I'd been operating out of the belief that I was somehow invisible, since I hadn't told anyone I was writing a blog. "Yes," I said. "I've been blogging."

"You're a good writer,"  he said.

I slitted my eyes at him in suspicion. It was too good to be true that my first glowing blog review would be from a real writer who was a kickass blogger himself.

He suddenly looked troubled. "There's one thing wrong with your blog, though."

Here it comes, I thought. He'll point out some fatal flaw with my blog and I'll be so devastated, I'll never blog again.

"What happened to October 6?" he said.

"October 6?" I racked my brain, trying to remember October 6.

"October 6. The one about the pancakes," he said.

"Oh that," I said.  "A couple of days after I posted it I went back and read it and it didn't make sense. So I tried to edit it and accidentally deleted it."

"It made sense," he said. "Put it back."

"I can't," I said. "I deleted it."

"You don't save copies of your blog posts in a separate file?" he said.

"No," I said. "It was only my third post. I hadn't even thought about backing stuff up."

"That's too bad," he said. "October 6 was the best one."

"If you liked it so much did you print out a hard copy of it and put it up on your office wall?" I said.

He looked puzzled. "No."

I felt horrible. I was in danger of losing my first and possibly only fan. "Don't worry. I'll recreate it," I said.

He looked very sad. "It won't be the same."

Not one to cry over spilled milk, I went ahead and recreated October 6. October 6 is now October 14. No, it's not the same...or maybe it is? I have no way of knowing since the original October 6 is lost forever.

So, gentle reader, is there an October 6 in your life? Some person, place or thing which you accidentally deleted because it didn't make sense...and then you found out it not only made sense...it was the best one?

I Hope You Had As Much Fun As I Did Last Night

Happy New Year!

(And now we can all go back to bed...)

A Case of Mistaken Identity

I hate it when people call me  "Ma'am".

When that happens, I feel like a middle aged woman frumping her way through life in the Upper Midwest. Which is possibly how I look to  some people. But I'm more comfortable thinking of myself as a fairytale princess who was kidnapped as an infant by trolls who were hiding under the bridge when the royal carriage passed over it. I just know that some day a handsome art dealer will recognize me for who I really am and rescue me and sell my paintings for pots of money and make me famous and a national treasure.

Until then, out of a sense of noblesse oblige, I'll refrain from yelling at all the misguided peasants who keep calling me "Ma'am".

The Hostess, graphite on bristol paper, 27-1/2" x 17-1/4"

With a Love Like Mine He Knew He Wasn't Glad

"I love you," I said.

"I reject your love," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"Because your concept of love could be summed up by an early Beatles' song," he said.

"What's wrong with that?" I said.

"See? That's what I mean," he said.

The Adventures of Ms. Potato Head

I took the Green Line to an art-teaching gig I had last week.

I shuffled up to the train stop around noon. The day was sunny and bone-chillingly cold, with a nasty wind blowing down from Canada. In deference to the climate I was swaddled in my warmest hooded coat,  fur-lined boots,  snowmobile gloves and polyester leg warmers. The only thing saving me from terminal frumpiness was a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

As I took my place next to the other travelers at the train stop, I observed that we were experiencing the kind of fashion synchronicity which sometimes occurs among strangers:  we were all wearing  lumpy hooded coats, leg warmers, snowmobile gloves and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. If I hadn't known which one of us was me, I might have lost myself in the crowd.

Suddenly a pretty  teenaged girl skateboarded up to the train stop. She was lightly dressed in a  purple velvet  jacket, lavendar miniskirt, pink tights and laceup granny boots. A riot of auburn curls cascaded across her shoulders. Her nose sported a dusting of freckles, her brown eyes were luminous and her rosebud lips shaped the words of a lilting melody. She was the perfect embodiment of springtime and hope.

As soon as Ms. Springtime-and-Hope spotted me, she pirouetted to a stop. "You look comfortable," she said to me.

 "Comfortable" is not a good adjective to fling at a shivering, narcissistic female who is no longer in the first bloom of youth.

"I am NOT comfortable," I said. "I'm fucking  freezing." I flung off my hood and displayed my head. "I'm supposed to look like you but it's so cold I had to wear this damned hood... and now I'm all mashed."

The pretty girl looked puzzled.

"My hair," I said, gesturing at my head with my snowmobile-glove flippers. "Look at my hair: it's all mashed."

By now the other travelers were peering at us through the periscope openings of their hoods.

The  girl studied my hair and my face. Her puzzled expression faded as a flicker of understanding shadowed her features. She grinned and gave me a thumb's up.  "That's okay," she said. "You're stylin' the mashed."

She turned and skateboarded off, singing her lovely song.

Such is the way with women: even the pretty young ones understand about the beauty contest all women get enrolled in at birth. Even the pretty young ones understand  how much it hurts to lose against time and circumstance.

But as that enchanting creature reminded me that day: even when all seems lost...you can always style the mashed.

Hillary, Angie and Me

A couple of weeks ago I went  to an art event in Northeast Minneapolis. It was late, the night was bitterly cold and my lair was warm and friendly... but all that love and home cooking was rattling my wolfish nature.

When I arrived at the large, trendy building housing the art event, I discovered the place was packed with people I'd never seen before. I used to know everyone around here, but the art community has swollen in the past 10 years.

Without anyone to talk to, I amused myself by standing beside a refreshment table and watching some  people admire each other's outfits.  The spectacle of their interaction was quite entertaining: Minnesotans dress in fantastic and colorful garb at winter art events. It's one way to fight the torpor induced by endless darkness and cold.

Suddenly a stylish woman walked up to me and said, "Hi. You don't know me but I Iove your paintings."

"Thanks," I said.

"You have such a wild imagination," she said.

"Yes I do," I said.

"I'd love to be you for just one day," she said. "It must be so exciting with all those brilliant ideas flying around in your head."

"Yup, sometimes I feel like a regular air traffic controller of brilliant ideas," I said.

"I'd also love to be Angelina Jolie for just one day," she said.

"Angelina Jolie," I said.

"Or Hillary Clinton," she said. "Except Brad Pitt is much cuter than Bill Clinton, don't you think?"

"I haven't really thought about it," I said.

"Do you ever want to be someone else besides you?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "Sometimes I do."