2004-01-28 @ 6:56 p.m.
|Voice over: "Day 317 of snow..."
Medium tracking shot: Wittykitty walking through the living room, momentarily stopping at the curtain, and pulling it aside, to see the Evil That Is...
Voice Over: "WINTER 2004 (echoing slightly). 120" of snow...since Tuesday. The unexpected sight of bears... hibernating in her mailbox. The piece of shit car buried...up to the antennae. What will our heroine do? How will she extricate her car from the snowbank that her landlord has plowed her into?"
Music Cue: Japanese Samurai Soundtrack.
Sound Cue: Loud Samurai chopping noises.
Artistic overhead shot: Row of Samurai Warrior Snowblowers chopping a path to wittykitty's piece of shit car.
Close-up: Wittykitty smiling and then kissing Tom Cruise for some inexplicable reason.
Yes, I've had enough of winter, can you tell?
A friend from my Survivor group runs a peer support place downtown. She has been planning to start a little art group for quite a while and has been dropping heavy hints that I should come join since I'm kind of artsy and all. I'm not much of a joiner, but since she's been so enthusiastic about it, I thought I would give it a try.
The peer center is kind of a jumping off place for people who have been chewed up and spit out by the mental health system. I had gone there several months ago to take a mental health survey and been a little uncomfortable with some of the people there. A few of them were just a couple of steps away from "The Fisherking" if you know what I mean.
Not that that is bad. I've been in the hospital twice for depression, but some of these folks have had life long relationships with the Funny Place. But with that in mind...tolerance, I thought what the hell.
So I got there. My friend was a little hyper about getting the newly acquired art supplies out of the closet. She asked each person what they wanted and the three women and one man just sort of stood there and stared. The I'm-medicated-so-I-don't-lunge-at-people stare.
First woman: "Acrylics, I think."
Second woman: "Can I have water colors. Can I please have water colors, please. Please. Thank you. Thank you. water colors, please. Thank you. I'm sorry."
Then the wild eyed guy, who looked like Chris Kattan from Saturday Night Live, stepped up and wanted to do a collage and asked for scissors.
Note to self: If Collage Boy looks like he's heading into flashback, run!
I, of course, grabbed a huge new sketch pad, charcoal pencil, and a new package of pastels. I instantly fell in love with the pastels. My pastel box has 8 colors. This one had about 36 colors. Yee-haw!
Since my sketchpad was so huge, I sat in a nearby chair, while everyone else got situated at a table. It probably looked like I was being antisocial. Ok, I was. Or maybe just a little shy.
Its funny what mentally ill people talk about. Themselves. And their therapist.
Imagine. Kinda like the wittykitty diaries.
I immediately launched into a pastel extravaganza. Lotsa colors. Colors I don't usually use like pinks, purples, and lavenders. I used a nearby dish and made big circles and within each circle I created individual microcosms of life. They actually looked like a bunch of psychedelic amoebas. Yeah, that's what I MEANT to draw...really.
While I was working, Collage Boy sidled over to me and asked, "Do you ride ponies?"
"I did when I was little"
He smiled broadly and said, "I could tell. You just looked like you rode ponies."
Well, allrighty then.
Conversation was minimal during the group. I actually kind of wished we could have had some music.
One of the women looked really familiar. I think I may have been in the hospital with her at one point. She was doing a water color. An angry watercolor.
She mentioned something about living in San Francisco. I said, "Oh, I used to live there." And she ignored that, and talked right over the top of me (which is also a theme for mentally ill people it seems. the me-me-me thing).
So she talked about how she had once lived on Nob Hill, but then ended up in the Tenderloin, which is a seedier part of town. And how she used to go into Mamasita's to buy tacos and get sodas for the hookers. And how she had once been followed from the Transbay Terminal by a creep who wanted to rape her.
Well, thanks for sharing...definitely good conversation to draw by.
But of course, when I draw, I pretty much block out everything around me, making voices nothing more than ambient sound.
Will I go back? Sure, why not. Free paper, 27 shades of purple, and the beginning of the Psychedelic Amoeba Collection. What could be better?
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty