may trump The Unbearable Lightness of Being. For the moment.
I'd no idea, until yesterday, that's it been nearly 8 weeks since I've blogged...so that faint sense of relief you've been experiencing? The reprieve you've had from quirky music and senseless ramblings? That beautiful silence? Over. Again, for the moment...
I've actually spent the last weeks deciding what I might want to do with my life. Like a job or something. This is what I came up with....
- a hospice chaplain
- a hospice nurse
- a nail tech., specifically for hospice patients, nursing homes, etc.
- a teacher
So the chaplain thing...I suppose if no one I know, personally, ends up in hospice I might be able to pull that off (after all, I did work as a medical assistant one summer while pursuing a degree in acting....). A hospice nurse? IVs and 16 hour shifts wouldn't really "work", I'm afraid. ( I HATE all that is intravenous with near phobic intensity...IVs...blood draws. Anything vein-ish. I get grey...sweaty....sometimes I sing...). I did discover that if you drink a LOT of water right before-hand, the blood spurts out a bit quicker (yick-yick-yick!!!!). But then of course, you still have all the sweaty-groaning-grey-singing with an incredible urge to pee...
Needle Lady: Miss Wommack, are you okay?
Meg: (moaning and humming, head lolling on her sweaty neck....) Oh, fine....la-la-la...really fine...are you done yet?
Needle Lady: Almost. (we both know she's a liar. a freaking bad liar, at that.)
Meg: (between singing snatches of Hank William's "I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive")....(croak)...weather...two girls...(watery gasp)...are you almost done?
Why do they ask you questions during a time like this?! Yeah Needle Lady...I want to recount all that is dear and wonderful and beautiful about my life. Because, that's really the sort of thing I like to do before I moan, sweat, turn grey, pee my pants, pass out, and eventually die-die-DIE! We both know this is going to kill me. Why is it going to kill me? Have you seen that movie about the kids-who-don't-get-on-the-plane-that-blows-up and then the rest of the movie they're-all-dying-and-stuff because they've cheated-a-horrible-death? HAVE YOU?! No, I thought not...because, if you had read any of my charts, then you, Miss Needle Lady--or whatever you call yourself nowadays!--if you had read, then you would know, the clock is TICKING. TICKING!!! Ticking for me, personally--and this could darn well be the last TOCK, that's just my freaking luck. My destiny, if you will...
She passed away while getting a blood-draw...yes...very rare....the Needle Lady used a needle that was way too long and it stuck right through Meg's arm and into the electrical socket on the far wall...the Needle Lady was wearing Crocs, of course, so she was not shocked....but Meg in her flowered clogs. Well. No, no...it's okay to say it. She never did wear sensible shoes...the most terrible part--that haunts me to this day--is that the tourniquet inexplicably popped off her arm and blinded her. She died, blind and electrocuted...and you know, her veins did blow up, there at the last--just after they'd been sucked up through the needle and squished back the wrong way. She'd always said that would happen, and I never did give that notion of her's much credence... Ah, poor mite. Would that I had known...
(casual laughter) No, no, no...I don't really think all that. (she said, abashed and slightly emberassed at her deepest fears being displayed for all to see...).* ** (some college)
I watched a nail tech. appointment. It was mind-numbing, and apparently you have to be nice allllll day long. In person. Face to face. Creepy chemicals. There's hand contact. And I can't maintain, nor do I desire to maintain, "pretty" nails for any amount of time--in fact, I do believe it's been a solid sixteen+ years since my unfortunate first--and last--attempt at "nails". And I just don't think that would make a very good impression on my potential victims? It smacks of un-trustworthiness. Like if I owned a restaurant and never ate there? Or a swimming instructor who can't [swim]. Then too, I kind of avoid make-up that's colored. (Yes, I know how that sounds...). You see an appropriate, subtle, shade of eyeshadow. I see a Crayola Box of 64--can't help it.
And the teaching thing...again, with the nice-ness. Ah, well... The only idea I've had which I've actually considered is a Master Gardener certification. Which is all volunteer work, which sort of defeats the purpose of the whole job quest.... Although, I must say, it would be completely expected for me to spend a lot of time doing something that adds no income whatsoever to my household (oh baby, don't say that!).
So a week or so ago? I decided to just go ahead and be an artist. Which leads to all sorts of questions...what to make, etc., blah-blah-blah.... Does a girl just ignore the economy and proceed? In truth, I really do miss dollies...but the dollie-dreams in my noggin have grown wicked time-consuming and complex. The figurative is at that place--I know you know what I mean--where you grow, learn, get better, or scrap it altogether out of respect for the medium. If I'm "stuck" because I don't want to grow, that's one thing...but if it's simply because no one has money to buy art, that's not a good enough reason. In my book. (Book of Meg, Chapter 2)
I actually polled the living room last night--and I so wish I could remember what Chloe had to say about "what mom should make"! It was her wonderfully "usual" follow your heart speech. But hilarious, too. Ah, that girl... She wants me to make "felt mascots" from the Japanese craft book she got for her birthday. (I suspect her advice is not completely altruistic.)
So. I'm as excited as you are to see what the heck I come up with....and just for kicks, there's a poll. Because I've never had one on my blog...unless it's not there. Because every time I threaten a poll, I can't get it to "show up".
What I am sure of, what I am certain I have learned--the artist's non-creating cycle can be just as vital as the art itself. Though that sounds a bit nonsensical and psycho-babbley, it's true... I know I gather everything--every moment, every image, every face, every song or poem or book...even a word--artists of any sort gather all of these trinkets of inspiration, every day, and store them away. Sometimes I feel I'm a peddler doll--but nothing's for sale, aside from the results of my dream-hoarding. (okay...I'm certain I've lost Sherry at this point...."Nutmeg...it's wonderful...but how do you come up with this stuff?!..." And that's a comment pertaining to my work, and the drugs. Or lack thereof-- not Sherry.)
I'm seeing girls in masks with little wool caps...flowing hair...small hands that are still large enough to hold fast to what's important--elaborate costumes, aged and worn...unexpected patterns and forgotten colors...they might have pet ravens or cats or little poppets of their own? I think all of them are on some sort of journey...and they may "meet", intersect, as travelers will do.... There will be that tentative moment of inspection, the hopes of a million little-girl's-journey-hearts will hang in the balance of an unsettling universe; a world that is cold, palest grey, and fraught with existential angst...and then the cats will eat the birds? Stay tuned, if only for the blood-shed.
*Joe might beg to differ a bit with this particular disclaimer...after plasmapheresis, multiple sclerosis, chemotherapy, two delieveries (ah, that was easy!--I got a prize at the end!)...one nasty cat bite, and--though I did not require medical attention--an incident involving a discarded croc which bounced the bathroom door into my head...it smacked my noggin so hard that there was a noise (so take your sensible shoes and sell stupid elsewhere). Well, after all that--he might have his own opinions. But he's not the most verbose fella (yes, that quality was attractive to me, for various reasons.)
**The Needle Lady will definately disagree with this passage--like I'm scared. Are you going to listen to the girl in the really cool shoes or The Lady With All of Those Needles in the Garfield scrubs? Yeah. That's what I thought. Oh, snap.
P.S....It occurs to me that some of my frequent-flier doctor's offices' actually read this blog. No...it's not you, I promise. The scrubs are a coincidence...an unfortunate, regrettable, coincidence...