Squeaky Clean

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m a city rat. The suburbs are lovely to visit, but a pretty cottage with a manicured lawn just doesn’t ring my bell. That said: Friday morning dawned sultry as midsummer, and the brick warehouse where I live grew sizzlingly warm (I live on a downtown block unshaded by foliage). My art project (the epic installation I’m building which addresses the perils of the human condition in a manageable but poignant display of spontaneous mindfulness) wilted in the heat, along with me. So I decided to leave my studio and walk to the bank, where I planned to address the perils of not having enough money in my account next week when rent is due.

As I traversed the streets of my neighborhood, girls in summer frocks and lads in shorts and sneakers ambled past me, carrying paper-wrapped morsels of drippy luncheon snacks bought from multifarious food trucks. The wind crinkled through my hair as a man yelled “Cher” and roared past me on a ramshackle bicycle.

Concrete stretched in all directions, radiating warmth against my flesh. Suddenly I felt overheated, and not in a good way. I yearned for towering trees and sweet, airy bungalows. I craved an emerald summer lawn dotted with yellow dandelions and pink flamingos. Most of all, I wanted a rotating lawn sprinkler for me to run through. I longed for droplets of moisture to spew all over me, drenching my skin and cooling my overwrought physique.

As I rounded a building and prepared to cross 5th street, I saw three people standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. All of them wore running gear and hopped in place, speaking to each other in loud, athletic voices. I stood a few steps behind them, thinking anyone who’d go running on a day like this must be slightly insane.

Suddenly all three energetically shook their arms and bodies, spewing droplets of perspiration in many directions…including all over me.

As the light changed and the human lawn sprinklers took off running, I observed that their sweat had indeed cooled me down, even though now I felt like a walking biohazard.

Fifteen minutes later, as I stood in the shower in my windowless urban bathroom, I realized that one reason why I like living in the city is because you can find pretty much find anything you want, any time. But you have to be careful what you ask for, or the city (with its quirky imagination and misguided sense of humor) might grant your wishes in fanciful and unforeseen ways. 

Just Another Historical Event in Minnesota

I had no interest in viewing last Monday’s solar eclipse. I’ve already seen a number of eclipses, both full and partial, and they all look the same in the dark. I was, however, VERY interested in how people would react while watching the moon blot out the sun.

 At first I thought I’d attend an eclipse party (there seemed to be a lot of them listed on Facebook), but shortly before the eclipse was scheduled to begin, I found myself in the middle of doing laundry. It’s not the first time my cosmic plans have gone awry in favor of personal hygiene.

As I pulled shut my studio curtains, to avoid accidentally viewing the sun during the ocularly-hazardous event, I noticed a crowd of people standing in front of the building across the street, eyes raised heavenward and protective glasses in place. Although they were silent, I figured all hell would break loose at 1:06 p.m., the moment the maximum phase of the eclipse was due in Minnesota.

At 12:32 p.m., I made a quick visit to the laundry room down the hall, where I loaded a basket of clothes into the washer. Scooting back to my loft, I set my egg timer for 30 minutes, sat at my worktable, and wrote in my journal while I waited.

At 1:06 p.m., I listened for cheers and shouting from the crowd.

All I heard was my egg timer going off.

After two more minutes of silence, I headed out the door and down the hallway.

My laundry was done.

The Battle of the Sexes Rages On

I hope you had a great 4th of July.

I did.

I began by working on my latest masterpiece, an epic self-portrait installation. Things went so well, I would have blown a trumpet out the window if I'd had one. Then a friend of mine stopped by for lunch. At first the scene in my lair seemed downright pastoral: I fried up some grilled cheese sandwiches while he read to me aloud from a book by Charles Bukowski.

We sat on bar stools and ate at my kitchen counter, equipped with our bare hands and a bottle of ketchup. As we gobbled down our glorious repast, we talked about art, life, and the world situation.

Eventually I got bored and changed the subject. "Enough about art, life, and the world situation. Let's talk about me."

 He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before he replied. "What about you?"

"If someone asked you to describe me in one sentence, what would you say?"

His face assumed the guarded expression he wears when I ask him things like "Do I look fatter than when I first met you?" and "Do you think I'm a genius?"

He said nothing.

"Come on," I said. "Be honest: I can take it."

He continued his silence for another half minute. Then his big blue eyes brightened, and a grin invaded his visage. He leaned forward and said in a voice filled with self-confidence, "I'd say you're a slice of life."

Score one for his team.

An Unwitting Accomplice

I recently got back from trying to see an admission-only, fabulously amazing art exhibition.

I say "trying" because the place was jammed with people taking selfies in front of the artwork.

I felt very annoyed. It's not that I'm averse to selfies...I mean, most of my creative endeavors are one big selfie. But I paid a hefty admission price to see the show, and instead of being able to lose myself in the real-time, orgasmic experience of viewing the masterpieces in person, I ended up being distracted by flashes from cameras, or accidentally getting in people's way as they snapped their photographs.

Usually when people are taking photos, I stay out of their way until they're done. I don't like being in pictures unless my hair and makeup is perfect and the lighting makes me look young as springtime. Which is basically never. But finally I just went ahead and walked in front of their cameras, since it seemed to be my only choice if I wanted to see the art.

I suspect pictures of the back of my head are now trending on social media.

Which I guess makes me part of the problem.

Flower Girl

It's springtime, and love is in the air.

There was a time, a couple of springtimes ago, when people seemed to be finding their soulmates everywhere. Love bloomed on the Internet, in bars, at bus stops, at church, at the grocery store, at sports events...just about anywhere you can think of.

And then there were the ones who couldn't even find anyone to date, let alone fall in love with.

One of the lonely ones was an acquaintance of mine, a winsome but complicated female. I noticed her moping on a bench in Mears Park as I shuffled my bones to the gym.

"Hi," I said to her. "How are you?"

"I've been better," she said.

"Why? What's up?"

She stared at me gloomily. "Two people I know just got engaged."

"What's wrong with that?"

She rolled her eyes. "They've only been dating a couple of months, but they said they knew immediately knew they were soulmates and they should spend the rest of their lives together."

"Cool."

 Her voice cracked with emotion."Everyone's finding their soulmates except me." She looked at the ground. "I'm so depressed."

"Maybe you're just hungry," I said. "Let's grab a burger somewhere."

"I don't have any money."

"I'll treat. I just sold a painting." I gestured in the direction of a nearby eatery. "Come on."

She pulled herself to her feet.

We both ordered burgers with caramelized onions. As she wolfed down her last bite, she smiled.

I smiled back at her. "Feeling better?"

"I guess so. But still, how come so many people are finding their soulmates so easily, everywhere they go, and I'm still alone?"

"Some people are common as lawn daisies," I said. "They have many soulmates to choose from. But you, you're mysterious and rare."

"Me?"

"Yes. If you were a flower, you'd be a ghost orchid."

She furrowed her brow. "What's a ghost orchid?"

I nodded wisely. "See what I mean?"

Flirting Inside the Box

Why, oh WHY do I answer the phone? I suppose it's because someday you might call. But today it was my friend K. (not her real initial), telephoning to give me advice I didn't ask for.

"Hi," K. said."I love your blog, except there's a problem with it: you spend too much time talking about relationships. You sound like a flibbertigibbet."

"I do?"

"Yes, and it's a shame, because you're a serious, committed painter. You need to share more about your artistic process."

"I'll think about it," I said. "Maybe next week, when I'll have more time."

"You need to begin right now. Take the phone with you into your studio and talk to me about what you're doing."

"Okay." I sauntered into my studio, put the phone on a worktable, and switched the phone to speaker mode. "I'm now in my studio. As you know, I usually use water-soluble oil paint because I can no longer tolerate the fumes from traditional oils unless I have really good ventilation. But today the weather is so nice, I have the windows open, and I awoke gripped by a desire to paint with traditional oils, like I used to in my wild youth."

"Good," she said. "Continue."

"Now I'm opening the metal box housing my traditional oils." I sighed and clasped my hands to my heart. "There they are, forty-two tubes of paint." I giggled. "Oddly enough, forty-two is the exact number of men I ..." I clapped my hands over my mouth. "Oh whoops, I almost slipped back into talking like a flibbertigibbet."

"Yup," she said. "You did. But you stopped just in time."

"Okay, back to my serious oil painting session. Now I'm looking inside the box, studying each of tube of individual paint. There they are, all the big players from my early life as a painter." I sat on a folding chair, leaned my elbow on the table, and removed a tube from the box. "PRUSSIAN BLUE. He was a military type, not my usual kind, but opposites attract. His emotional range was rigid but exciting. When I was around him, I marched to a monochrome beat. PRUSSIAN BLUE takes forever to dry, and I mean forever. I still have some paintings done with PRUSSIAN BLUE which are tender to the touch...I think that means he's still carrying a secret torch for me, which is why I keep him in a fireproof box."

I picked up another tube."CADMIUM YELLOW. He was a cad (duh) and an outlaw. The only reason I even have this paint is because he was given to me by an elderly oil painter whose mind was crumbling. Possibly her time with cadmium and her crumbling mind were connected. I'll bet it was worth it, though...that woman loved miscreant types. Alas, the tube is empty, so I'll never know."

I returned both tubes to the box and leaned over to survey the rest."BRIGHT RED. There is no such thing as BRIGHT RED. BRIGHT RED is clearly a fake name, and I never trusted BRIGHT RED enough to use him." I cleared my throat. "PERMANENT GREEN LIGHT. Our relationship was more friendship than passion, but sometimes a lack of passion is allowable if a relationship holds up in other respects. For example, PERMANENT GREEN LIGHT was always there for me in ways FLAKE WHITE never was."

Looking closer into the box I gasped. "Omigod. I think ULTRAMARINE VIOLET is having a fling with ALIZARIN CRIMSON...they're stuck together like mating houseflies. But at least those two are still with me, even though they're cheaters, unlike ROSE MADDER, who's gone missing...a fact which doesn't surprise me, since ROSE MADDER is known to be a fugitive color."

My friend interrupted me. "Okay, you can stop now."

"Why? I'm just getting started."

"You're incorrigible," she said.

"Yes," I said,"and I plan to stay that way."