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Damn telemarketers... they screw up your life, even when you sleep. The rude awakening came four hours after I slid into Slumberland... rousing me just enough to plod barefoot into the kitchen in my boxers (with one eye slitted open) and get coffee started. Thinking the fragrance of fresh java would seductively draw me back, I dove back into the comforter to wait for the last gurgle. Fast forward to eleven AM. Crap. Not like I missed much sunshine... there were little silver darts of rain tattooed to the windows once again. I'm beginning to think they're going to stick that way. Something urged me to do a mini art crawl... get presentable and see what the local artists had been up to. Find some inspiration and a good reason for blowing off a trip to DC (somehow, the thought of walking city streets, solo, was a bit more "noir" than I could take), and not repeat the mistakes of Thursday last. One thing I regret about being a migrant worker is losing touch with the arty community. There are plenty of bored upper-middle-class poseurs included, but the evidence on the walls show more talent than escapism. Inventive thinking. Pushing boundaries. Something that needs to translate, again, from my brain to my hands. If I keep waiting for the "push", it'll never happen. To find some space... that would help. And a couple of grand to remove myself from dreaded routine. Hey, I can dream. |
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