I wonder how the cupcakes are doing out there. I imagined the art installation as a cupcake rash that mysteriously broke out, and then disappeared. It’s always interesting to create something and then release it into the world. Art therapy is magical and miraculous, and this was one of my favorite projects. I’m super curious to see if I hear any more about it, because I’m pretty sure not all of them have been found. I hope they go to happy homes.
I’m ready to move to the next project. I want to paint a huge version of a painting I did a long time ago, and write a book with some paintings in it. I think it would be marvelously entertaining for me, but I keep getting distracted with the busy work of everyday life. Paperwork and dinero, it’s so tedious. I miss my ex, he helped me handle all that shit totally efficiently so I could just go wild with creativity. Even if his uptight yuppie heart never quite understood it. Funny how things work out. I think he’d have approved of art therapy as a pursuit, it would be dignified enough for him to discuss in polite society. I don’t miss other women getting all bitchy just because I had him for arm candy, although it was fascinating in a way. Besides, it’s much easier to make social connections as a single woman, and I need strong and varied social interactions, it keeps my brain stimulated, and you never know where inspiration will come from.
I’m still laughing that we rolled through the island for the guerilla art installation in a cloud of weed smoke and dressing “inappropriately”. After all this time, I think some of my biggest lessons from the island are that: I have to stand up for myself all the time, and I should have tried harder to get a ride in a fighter jet. I think I could have done it if I’d applied myself when I was manic, but I was too wrecked with depression, dammit. Too bad I started that whole furor with the pilots, I’m guessing it’s a bit late to be asking. Yeah, me and the uptight dudes just don’t get along. Like we always remember now: Border guards have no sense of humor, and fighter pilots don’t dance.
I worry about anyone who doesn’t know how to get the funk down, it’s like soul constipation. Speaking of that, I have horrible idiotic writer’s block and my deadline is tomorrow. I am ready to try drastic measures to fix it, but I’m so stuck I’m not sure what would work other than the regular methods I’ve tried. Ready to scream with frustration!!!!
Safety Dance- Men Without Hats
Superstition- Stevie Wonder