Originally Posted Sunday, February 3, 2013
I guess I hadn't eaten the day I went drinking with the new guys. The liquor hit me harder than it does at home. But I got up hopeful but realized I was in no mood for the gym, and since I'd already hazarded the germs of the hoi-poloi, I thought that a greasy breakfast was just the thing. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. But when I went next door to the little record/bookstore, I was not having the usual fun. Words and images did not please me as they most often do. They were making much less sense. So I went to the art store to buy some supplies, but that was a sweaty, fruitless mess, too. Within the half hour, I was back in bed. Breakfast and a nap, I said, was just the thing on the most beautiful day of the year.
By two I woke up to the sound of work truck doors slamming over and over again. If I were in better shape, I told myself, I'd go out and kick somebody's ass. For what, though? I just wanted more sleep. A shower. That would be the thing. But it wasn't. It was a challenge, and when it was over, I put on some clothes and went to the studio because I couldn't think of what else to do. Surely there was something that I wanted to do over there.
The studio. My studio, I thought. Look at all the stuff. I should make something. I have plenty of images to work with. What was it I had been thinking about doing? I wanted to mix some images, right? Paper, glue, wax, pencils, scratches. . . something. I sat down to think. Outside, the highest bluest sky was smiling. I walked out on the loading dock and saw the true artist's studio door open, so I traipsed over to see what artists did. He was drinking a beer and spraying his tennis shoes with vinegar.
"What's that smell?"
"I had to spray my shoes with vinegar. The cat sprayed them, I think."
"And you're thinking that vinegar smells better?"
The shoes looked like shit. He'd had them way too long.
"Maybe you should bronze them or cast them in glass."
"You want a beer?"
"Not yet. I'm thinking of working on something, but I don't know what. I'm still having withdrawals from not shooting models." I made a motion of sinking a needle into my vein and depressing the plunger. He giggled and shook his head. "I need to get on with the new project, but it is hard. Hell, I don't have time. Shooting with the 8x10 camera is a lot of work, not to mention expensive."
I was feeling guilty for keeping him from working, so I drifted out the door and back to my own place. Feeling the need to do something, I pulled out the chemicals and some laser prints and decided to make a few toner transfers. When I was finished, they looked like shit, destined for the trash pile.
The afternoon was waning, so I decided to walk up to the Boulevard. I'd walk among the crowd. Hell, I'd been a big man the night before. Surely I would be still.
But it was Saturday, and I'd forgotten. The invisible cruise ship had dropped off its hideous crowd. They were awful. It was time to go.
I had to make some stops. I went to a "health food" store as they used to be called to buy some things I couldn't get at Whole Foods, then went to the grocery store to get the rest. Hell, I thought, I was already ruined, so make it a day. Live a little. Have some fun. Fun? Buffalo hot dogs (all natural and uncured), canned baked beans, sourdough bread, a potato for frying, and some Cherry Garcia. Yes! Hell yes.
Back home, it was still too early to eat, so I poured some beer and sat down at the computer to do some "research." Research is important to an artist of any sort. It takes hours and hours of time each week. There is much to be learned from the internet.
I can hear you chuckling or see you sneering about my "research," of course, and you could be right. But I did find something to help me if I ever get through rehab and kick my bad habits and move on with things. Looky here (at your own risk, of course).
And as the sun set, wondering what was truly wrong with me, I set hot dogs on the grill and a frying pan on the outside burner and canned beans on the stove and listened to the sliced potatoes pop and sizzle like they did when I was a kid and had them every night. It was still early. It would be a long, long night alone. I would eat. I would read. I would watch a movie. I would go to bed early. And in the morning, I would go to the park and run the exercise course like a demon.
It didn't turn out that way, though, except for the eating. By midnight, having done much of what I said I wouldn't do, I took two hypnotics and went to bed.
This morning is a prelude to another perfect day. Yesterday's membrane is just a little bit thicker than before.
Tonight is the Super Bowl. I am going to cook a roast for my mother and make her watch the commercials. We will drink wine and eat and she will leave at half-time if not before. And tomorrow at work, people will be talking about it.
And that is it. It is The Way. It is just how Things go.
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