Sensory Overload

A raspberry caught me by surprise during lunch yesterday, hiding between a couple of leaves of lettuce in my sandwich. I’m not used to finding high-falutin raspberries in plebian turkey sandwiches, but there it was. The second surprise was my surprise about me being surprised, since I made the sandwich myself. The third surprise occurred during my walk after lunch, when I saw a dead bat with three wings lying on the sidewalk. The fourth surprise occurred when, upon closer observation, the dead bat turned out to be a rotting banana peel.

That was enough surprises for one day. Although it was only 3:00 in the afternoon, I went back to bed.

It's a Jungle in Here

I have certain safety rules for myself when I’m working in my studio:
 
1.  Wash hands frequently.
2.  Wear gloves/goggles/dust masks when appropriate.
3.  No eating, drinking or carnal interactions near hazardous art supplies.
4.  Move slowly and mindfully during dangerous activities.
5.  Always know the location of all sharp tools and objects.

I’m pretty good at following rules #1 through #4, but #5 sometimes evades me when I'm in the grip of passionate painting. Like one night last summer, when I was crawling around on the floor, working on my installation about the human condition. I happened to be wielding an X-acto knife as part of the deal, and yes I wore safety goggles, but the lenses grew steamy from my hot, heavy breath. I could only sort of see what I was doing, but I didn't care: I was having a blast. I felt like God, recreating the Universe, except this time getting it all wrong like it’s supposed to be.

Suddenly, I realized I had no idea where my X-acto knife had gotten to.

I froze in place and looked cautiously around. There was no way I wanted that thing to sneak up on me.

Alas, I couldn’t locate it…the X-acto knife was nowhere in sight.

Exhausted and sweaty, I decided to put off my search until the next day, when my studio would be bright with sunshine. Before I retired for the night, though, I took some safety precautions. Since I basically live in one big room, I barricaded my work area with plastic lawn chairs, painting taborets, display easels, used bubblewrap and boxes of packing materials. I wasn’t taking any chances, not with an X-acto knife loose in my place.

The next day, I suspended work on my installation and searched for the X-acto knife. It was kind of like having a snake loose in my home, but a snake would have gotten hungry at some point and come out of hiding. Wearing heavy boots and work gloves, I made sweep after sweep of my studio, cautiously poking in corners and looking underneath heavy furniture. I cleared debris, organized, vacuumed and dusted in places the sun doesn't usually shine. Still, no sign of the lost X-acto knife.

I finally gave up. I accepted the fact that the X-acto knife had escaped. I figured the thing had rolled into a crevice somewhere and was permanently installed as part of the building. Feeling defeated, I went out to buy a new X-Acto knife. As I drove home from the art store, I made an executive decision to construct a special box for the new X-acto knife, something decorated with buttons and bows and a hand-lettered sign reading “X-acto knife lives here.” I resolved to always put the instrument in its beribboned  box when I wasn’t actively using it.

As soon as I returned home, I went to put the new X-acto knife into the storage drawer where I keep studio tools, thinking I’d leave it there for safekeeping until I finished creating its pretty new
container.

Yup, you guessed it: the missing X-acto knife was lying in the storage drawer. Apparently I put it there the night before without noticing what I was doing,

So now I have two X-acto knives, and if I lose both of them, I’ll have two snakes loose in my place.

 Life just keeps getting more perilous all the time.

Every Day Without Construction is a Good One

Need I say more?

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.