Listen to Your Shoes

When a major disaster occurs, the human organism needs time to reconfigure itself before moving forward. Hence my distress since Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 U. S. presidential election.

For awhile my despair manifested itself in the usual ways: shattered sleep, loss of appetite, tearful outbursts, existential fatigue, and a need to be around other people (preferably large groups characterized by global diversity).

Last night my derailment took on a less-generic aspect. I awoke at 2 a.m. and jumped out of bed in a panic. Half-asleep, I rushed to my clothes closet, dove to the floor, and crawled around checking to see if all my shoes were there. (This task was made difficult by the fact I'm not exactly sure how many shoes I own or what they look like.) As my sleep fog cleared, I sat on the floor and pondered my activities. It seemed that I was worried my shoes were so disgusted by the presidential election results, they decided to walk away on their own and go live some place where only shoes are allowed to dwell.

To the best of my knowledge, all my shoes opted to stay with me. I don't know if they remained in my closet because they're looking forward to marching in the streets, or if they hope I'll get so angry I'll take them out to kick some ass, or if they're just waiting for instructions from their leader (me) about what to do next.

Regardless of why my shoes are still here, I'll take their presence as a gesture of solidarity, a vote of confidence that all is not yet lost. It's a confidence which I'm not feeling myself, but sometimes you gotta just listen to your shoes.

The Pest

I read somewhere on the Internet that Painting is dead.

I've got news for the Internet: Painting isn't dead. It's over at my loft, eating all the cupcakes and getting in the way of me doing anything constructive.

SOLD

I recently sold an important painting.

I'm not going to tell you which painting it was. I've sold a number of paintings lately, and it could have been any of them.

I knew the painting was important the day after it sold, when I awoke to a loud silence in my place. Of course there were the usual morning sounds wafting from the alley beneath my window (garbage trucks, birds chirping, men playing ukuleles, etc.) but still...it was REALLY QUIET.

My morning was quiet in the way it always gets when someone or something larger-than-life leaves my world.

In the case of the painting, I was VERY happy it sold. Not only did I need the money, I love it when my art goes off to live elsewhere and and have a new life.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something BIG had left the building.

I did the only thing a girl can do under these circumstances: I got out of bed, made myself a cup of coffee, went into my studio...and began a new painting.

I hope my new painting turns out to be important.

Lights! Camera! Inaction!

People keep telling me I should make a cat video. I'm not sure why. I don't own a cat, I'm not really a "cat person" (although I like cats well enough) and I never have time to watch cat videos because I'm too busy watching paint dry.

But still, every couple of days someone says to me, "Nancy, you should do a cat video."

I've gotten this advice so often, it's time for a public announcement: NO CAT VIDEOS ARE PLANNED AT THIS TIME.

If I do ever make a cat video, the auditions will be difficult. You see, no cat could ever measure up to the Only Cat I Ever Really Loved, who's been gone from my life for many years now. I don't know what happened to him, but if he's still alive, he's 280 years old (in cat years, I mean.).

If there ever was a cat to live 280 years, that cat would be the one. The critter was even more cussed-minded than I am. If he shows up on my doorstep any time soon, I'll let you know.

In the meantime, I'm going to post the sole picture I possess of the two of us together. Think of it as a VERY slow motion cat video. In fact, it's so slow, it's still stuck on a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles, sometime in the 1980's, when I was utterly lost and that cat was my guide and protector.

Gluten

I love gluten. Gluten makes me happy. I often announce to anyone who'll listen that gluten is the poor woman's antidepressant.

Before I say anything more, you must understand that I'm speaking only for myself. Other people are having much different experiences with gluten, some of them not so good.

But enough about them. Let's talk about me. To sum things up succinctly, based on epistemology and without a control model: I could never work in a bakery. All hell would break loose.

Self-portrait as a Cupcake Decoration, oil on canvas, 48" x 36"

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.