Words From The Wise

 I usually bop around the planet feeling young as a lamb in springtime.  That said, there are some days when I feel positively ancient. I call those days "dinosaur days." Dinosaur days tend to coincide with moments when people post candid photos of me on Facebook, or when I fail to get carded buying alcohol.

Last weekend I was having a dinosaur day. I decided the best defense was to go shopping at Ulta for beauty supplies. Not only would it cheer me up to buy new lipstick and eye shadow, my face powder compact was wearing down and I needed to replace it.

I took the old face powder compact with me to the store. As anyone who's bought makeup will tell you, you have to be really careful when you shop for replacements or you'll grab something almost the same but not exactly. 

When I walked down a narrow side aisle toward the face powder section, the light was so dim I could barely read the label of the old compact. I refused to rummage in my purse for my reading glasses, since that would make me feel even more elderly, plus I knew if I could just get more light on the compact I could see the product information. As I walked along turning the compact this way and that in my hands, I almost collided with a woman who was walking the other way down the aisle.

"Sorry," I said, looking up at her.

The woman appeared to be of a chronological age slightly older than my chronological age. She was small and wiry and dressed in neat, fashionable clothing. Her hair was cut short in one of those styles which require high levels of mindfulness to maintain. She radiated intelligence and competence.

The woman shook her finger at me. "That's what happens when we're looking at our cellphone instead of watching where we're going," she said. She frowned and shook her head as if to say "You kids these days" and stalked off in a huff.

I thought about running after her and explaining to her I was looking at the side of the face powder compact, not a cellphone. I thought about engaging her in a conversation about how there are too many damned choices when you buy anything from face powder to nylons to soda pop. I thought about telling her I agree that people should be more responsible about how they use their cellphones. But I didn't. I was too busy enjoying my role as a stand-in for the irrepressibly madcap younger generation.

I never found a replacement for my worn-out face powder...but I didn't need it any more.

Everywhere You Go, There You Are

People often ask me how I find time to do art, when there are so many distractions in life.

I reply that sometimes art and distractions are one and the same.

Nancy Robinson, Vacation Shoe, circa 1991, mixed media sculpture, size 8

Night-Blooming Flowers

I was sitting in my studio writing in my journal one morning when somebody slid a card under the door. It was an invitation to a funeral for the Jax Art Building:

I never had a studio in the Jax Building, but it became part of my daily life when I moved into Lowertown. The north windows of my loft faced the front doors of the Jax.  At night the erratically-lit building looked like a dollhouse of art studios....my kind of dollhouse. During the day I smiled at the sight of teeny ballerinas going in and out of the ballet school located on the first floor. I visited some of the artists in their studios over the years. I could go on and on, but there are too many memories to list in the sound-bite mode of an Internet blog.

The funeral procession was bizarre, macabre and achingly lovely. It reminded me of Paris in the 1930's, not that I was actually alive then. The procession was a ragtag group of people, some elegantly attired in Edward-Gorey costumes and some looking like they decided to join the parade at the last minute. There was a coffin and pallbearers and a small marching band playing some sort of music (trombone and tuba?). Several artists who spend most of their time hiding in their studios (such as myself) ventured out into the fading twilight to honor the dearly departed.

It was the only funeral I ever voluntarily attended.

Afterwards there was a party at Golden's Deli. I ran into a friend of mine, another Italian-American artist no longer in the first bloom of youth. Like me, she's fighting her imminent decline every step of the goddamned way. She admired my getup, an all-black faux leather ensemble with thigh-high boots and glitter-encrusted evening gloves.

"I would have worn a black picture hat but didn't have time to run to Target to buy one," I said. "Also, I'm not really a hat person."

"The music is so loud I can't hear you talk," she said. "Let's go sit outside ."

We went outside and sat on a bus bench outside the deli. It was a glorious warm night and the streets were almost deserted. I talked about all the deaths I've experienced lately: buildings and love affairs and people and dreams.

"It's sad when things die, but it's the Circle of Life," my friend said.

Her words were oddly comforting to me.

 Suddenly we noticed a man in a car. He kept driving around the block and returning to the bus bench, each time getting closer to the curb. The last time he appeared he was so close we could see his face in the darkness of the car. He was staring at us and seemed to want to speak, but the car behind him beeped for him to get moving and he drove off.

"He got so close he almost ran over us that last time," my friend said.

"I think he saw the way we're dressed and realized we're artists from the funeral procession," I said. "I think he wanted to offer condolences but couldn't think of the right words to say."

"I think he thought we were hookers," my friend said.

The Secret Rules of Farting

Springtime is my favorite time of year. Not only is the season filled with promise of new beginnings, the shopping malls are filled with...PROM DRESSES!

On a recent sunny day I was driving through the Southdale parking lot when I spotted an acquaintance of mine standing at a bus stop. I yelled out the window. "Hey! Want a ride?"

She froze, looked my direction, recognized me and giggled. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"I was shopping for prom dresses at Southdale," I said. "I found a great one for $12.99, marked down from $200.00."

"You're going to a prom?"

 "No, but I buy the ones on sale which nobody wants and wear them as ballgowns for art events and nature hikes. What are you up to?"

"Shopping for sandals," she said.

"Do you want a ride home?" I said. She lives in Uptown and doesn't have a car.

"I'd better not," she said. "I'm kind of gassy today."

"So what? It's a nice day. We can open the windows."

She bobbled her pretty head. "Oh no. I could never do that to you."

"What are you going to do if you take the bus? Hold it in for 5 miles?"

"Oh no. I'll just let it out. "

"Isn't that rude for the other passengers?"

She spoke rapidly, as if she'd rehearsed the answer ahead of time. "I'll stare out the window like I'm lost in thought and they'll assume I didn't notice I farted."

"What will you do if someone points out that you farted?"

"No one would ever do that." She closed her eyes and her voice assumed a tone of studied patience. "That would be rude."

"Ruder than farting and acting like it wasn't you?" My query was staccato, like that of a prosecuting attorney on a 1950's TV show.

"Oh yes. Much ruder." She shook her head at me with disbelief. "Didn't anyone ever tell you the secret rules of farting?"

"No," I said. "I'm not a big fan of secret rules. Nobody ever gave me a copy of the secret rule book."

"There isn't a book about the secret rules of farting," she said. "At least not that I know of. But there should be one."

A bus appeared and angled its way toward the bus stop.

"Maybe I should write a book about it," she said.

"I have no doubt it would be a valuable service to humanity," I said.

"It's a huge subject. I could make lots of money." She glanced at the people queuing up to board the bus.

"If that's what you want to do, I think you should follow your dream," I said.

"Thank you so much for your encouragement, Nancy," she said. "Without your help I might never have realized that I'm sitting on a gold mine."

She waved goodbye and boarded the bus.

I hope she remembers to invite me to her book signing. My new prom dress is the perfect outfit for that kind of event.

Exoneration of a Hippy Slut

I've been spending a lot of time visiting doctors lately. Nothing is wrong with me; I'm just due for routine maintenance and repair. Last week I was in the waiting room at a clinic near my house. As my readers know, it's my custom to read The Wasteland to pass the time until the doctor is ready to see me.

Suddenly a pleasant-looking woman in a chartreuse dress began talking to me. She said things like "Nice day we're having" and "Wasn't the parking lot attendant adorable?" At first I ignored her, pretending I thought she was talking to herself.  I try to stay out of conversations with the other patients in waiting rooms; you never know where things might lead.

Something about the woman made me reconsider talking with her. It might have been the anxious look in her eyes or the way she was throttling a handkerchief with her fingers. I sensed a creature in torment who craved human interaction.

"Yes, the weather is lovely, " I said. "So...what brings you here today?"

"I'm not here for me," she said. "I'm here for a friend."

I didn't believe for a minute she was there for a "friend", but I decided to play along with the masquerade. "What a coincidence," I said. "I too am here for a friend."

"Why is your friend seeing the doctor?" she said.

"She has trouble fitting in with the other humans." I said. "You could say she marches to the beat of her own drummer. In fact, she thinks she might be from another planet."

"Do you think she is?"

"Most of the time. Why is your friend seeing the doctor?"

"Memory issues," the woman said.

"What kind of memory issues?"

"She can't remember who she slept with in the 1960's and '70's."

I furrowed my brow. "Why would she want to remember that?"

"She's worried she accidentally slept with several U.S. Presidents," the woman said.

"What does it matter if she DID sleep with them?" I said. "That was a very long time ago."

"She's worried she broke their hearts and they were so grief-stricken they made stupid decisions as Presidents, and as a result we're headed for an apocalypse. She's worried the apocalypse is all her fault."

"Don't worry," I said. "My friend says the apocalypse is occurring because the creatures from her planet are angry that Earth stole her from them."

"That's good news for my friend, since she's off the hook. But isn't the Earth still in very grave danger?"

"Not at all," I said. "Tonight after supper my friend plans to build a spaceship and return to her planet. Then everything will be okay."

The woman's face crinkled with crow's feet and smiles. "What a relief. My friend will be so glad to hear that. I think I'll go tell her right now."

She walked out of the waiting room and I went back to reading The Wasteland, happy with the knowledge that the apocalypse had been temporarily postponed.

Taming The Beast Within

I used to choose my doctors based on whether they had copies of The New Yorker in the waiting room. I harbored a vague, post-collegiate idea that any doctor who read The New Yorker was better equipped to treat me than some guy who read Field and Stream or Auto World.

Nowadays I base my choice of doctors on geographic location and whether they're in my health insurance network. I also bring my own reading material.

I was sitting in a doctor's waiting room perusing a paperback copy of The Wasteland which I've been dragging around since college. The Wasteland is my favorite thing to read in doctors' waiting rooms because it puts a perspective on the syntactic contradictions of metaphysical juxtapositions which occur during verb transitions.  Also, it fits in my purse.

Although I was immersed in my book, I couldn't help but notice a pair of squirming little kids who were camped out with their mother in a nearby elbow of couches. They appeared to be girl children. They were staring at me, whispering to each other and emitting torrents of giggling.

"Don't mind them," the mother said. "They're playing Guess-the-Pet."

"I don't know that game," I said. "I grew up in Ohio and we didn't have the same games as Minnesota."

"It's a game they made up. It helps them pass the time in waiting rooms."

One of the little girls shouted, "Cat!"

"She's guessing you have a pet cat," the mother said.

"Wrong," I said. "I harbor no cats in my lair. I confess, however, I've seriously considered getting a cat and a camera and filming some cat videos. I think it might help my art career."

"Ostrich!" the second little girl shouted.

 "Omigod, I do NOT have a pet ostrich!" I said. "They are SO into denial. I'm about brutal honesty. Except sometimes I get carried away and shoot myself in the foot by talking too much."

"Dog!" the first little girl shouted.

"She means like hunting dog," the mother said. "Since you shot yourself in the foot."

"I like dogs, but they're sluts," I said. "I am not a slut, even though I sometimes dress like one. You see, it's a persona, not the real me. Except it's sort of the real me."

"Hedgehog!" shouted girl number two.

"I am not a hedgehog," I said. "I know I have anxiety issues, but I have never...read my lips: NEVER...rolled up into a ball in public."

The girls threw themselves onto the floor and rolled themselves into balls, laughing wildly.

A nurse came out and looked at the girls.

"They're hedgehogs," the mother said. "Silly hedgehogs."

 "In that case, the veterinarian is ready to see you," the nurse said.