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2004-08-07 @ 10:50 p.m.
why I should start possibly planning for my alternate ending universe

Just last week I picked up a flyer at the Crazy Crazy place for an upcoming art show. It was being sponsored by the non-profit agency which funds the Crazy-Crazy place and was calling for all artists and all mediums. I was all excited, not only because it was an art show, but also because it was going to be taking place at this certain location which is THE art gallery in our town. It’s not our official, state funded one, but rather the privately owned one, located in a building which is like our mini version of SOHO in town. We even have one nationally known artist there. I want my art to hang in there really bad.

But the flyer stayed in my purse for almost a week. I was too scared to call the people. Performance anxiety I guess. I finally called them yesterday. Called good ol’ Steverino. Wanted to know the where’s and why for’s of the show. Also wanted to know if I was, in fact, eligible for the show, since it was a show for their agency. Wasn’t sure if I had to be an employee or whether I could just be a client being served by their agency. And now that I’ve talked to Steverino, I honestly still don’t know. And I really do need to know. He was very enthusiastic as he was talking about it. As non-profit agency guys tend to be. He was very enthusiastic until I mentioned that I would probably be submitting a nude drawing.

Steverino: (nervously) “aaaaaaaaahhhh.....”

Me: “I take a figure drawing class and I do a lot of pastel drawings of nudes....”

Steverino: “ummmmm. Well, I don’t know if we would be accepting anything of that nature since your work would be representative of our agency to the public.”

Me: “oh.”

I did assure him that I do have other kinds of art work, because (slobber, slobber), I REALLY do want my work to hang at the ********* ART Gallery! Of course, my other motivation, is that all art work must be for sale. Sure. Ok. Twist my arm. Force me to take cold hard cash upon my poverty stricken body, just because you want to hang my art over your commode mantlepiece. I’ll do it. I’m an Art Whore. I totally admit it.

So I did head over to that Gallery today. A guy from my figure drawing class had told me that they have weekly talks on Saturday afternoons at 2 p.m. and that they are FREE (key word of course) and I thought it would be a good thing to attend. But I got there, and no talk. I talked to the receptionist. She was sitting behind her trendy little desk with this official looking guy, who looked like he might be the owner or management type. She said that the talks were on hiatus for the summer.

She also said that my friend from my art class had said I might be coming in today and he felt bad that he couldn’t get ahold of me to tell me not to come. Well, that was nice of him. But also nice of her to forward the message, since she’s the receptionist of a snooty art gallery. I also talked to the guy. He seemed very knowledgeable about everything. I told him I might have some work coming up in an October show. He was very solicitous. He even asked what medium I used. Guess they have to be nice to every artist in case they turn out to be the next Jackson Pollock, and can make money for them. Kinda hate to burst their bubble.

And then things kind of took a wrong turn about mid-afternoon. I thought I was feeling better. I was still a little tired and yes, still bleeding, but the weather was nice, so I thought I would take a walk at the nearby lake. I truly love to walk. It was my Dad who got me into walking. We did a lot of walking and hiking when I was a kid. We walked together nearly every night after dinner. True, he was totally sloshed, but we still walked, and I loved our time together.

So I was walking along our lake. And I was doing a lot of thinking today. First about the art show. I have all this art work and no frames. Well, that’s not totally true. I have two frames and about 18 pieces of art. I also have an art show coming up in September. Our figure drawing class is having its second show of the year up at the University. And I still have the the one frame from February, but the other one’s glass broke. I did get one frame with some recent funding from my case management place, but that still only puts my frame total to two.

So I was thinking, yikes, I have a show in September, and then one in October. I’ll have to hurry quick like a bunny and take the nudes out of the frames and put my abstract stuff in. But my abstracts are done on canvases unlike my nudes which are done on paper and I don’t even know if the frames will fit the canvases. And besides who would want to buy my artwork in some garage sale frame, anyways.

Yeah, I was beating myself up as usual.

And then I switched to beating myself up on a grand scale. The why am I here grand scale. And how am I going to continue this month to month poverty thing, because I’m here to say, it just kind of loses its fun and spontaneity after the first fifty times, and then kind of ends up being about as enjoyable as watching 29 coyotes rot.

I then even started creating alternate endings to my life story.

Why not move to a new location? I’d have to wait until I get my Section 8 housing funding. But then I was thinking in Alternative Ending A, I could move down near NYC, where my friend “G” could probably get me some mega under-the-table jobs with his celebrity friends like walking John Malkovich’s malamute or house sitting Mercedes Ruehl’s brownstone.

And then inbetween at all these impossibly exciting under-the-table gigs, I could wonder around NYC and take in all the art galleries in SOHO and spend a month at MOMA and drink diet coke with low level artist in the Village. And I’m sure “G” would have me over to dinner at his new fancy apartment that he’s just moving into and it would be fun. Oh and also, Married Guy would still be able to visit me once in a while when he comes down to The City to see his parents. It would be kismet!

And than Alternative Ending Universe B, I would be to move back to California and live with my friend “S”. She literally invites me to do that every single time I talk to her. She lives in a big fancy house on the Sonoma/Marin County border line. She has a pool. She’s kind. She’s always been the mother figure I have sought. And I know she’d only charge me minimal rent. And I’d live in California again. As in no snow. And...NO MOTHER.

Christ. That would truly be an Alternative Universe...One Without Guilt.

But if I ever moved back to California without my mother, I would never hear the end of it. Because I am still getting my karma spanked for supposedly MAKING her move to the East Coast. Yup. It’s entirely my fault. Hell, I can’t even make my mother stop calling me, let alone making her move 3000 miles against her will. Sheesh! Why am I responsible for everything???

So I was thinking about all this stuff, and suddenly realized how tired I was. I usually do a great deal of walking in the summer....10-15 miles a week (although this week, I’ve only walked about 3 miles, because of my fatigue), but on today’s walk, I kept sitting down at every third or fourth bench.

Now the place I walk is along a large lake and there are two trams that operate along the path about every 15 minutes. And as I was walking I started to realize that I needed to catch that tram, because I was starting to feel faint. Unfortunately I was smack dab between the tram stops, so I decided to try and make it to the next tram stop by walking really briskly. And then I realized that the tram was coming up behind me, rather quickly, so I broke into an ill fated 50 yard dash. heh heh.

El Stupido, witty.

Trams are faster than sickly kitties.

So, what is the international sign of distress, now? The waving of arms? The yelling of the words, HELP, HELP? Well, I did those two things because I was feeling so weak, that I wasn’t sure if I was going to pass out. But the tram driver, who was obviously from France, or some place that doesn’t give a shit, shook her head no as I was trying to flag her down and kept driving.

And then as all the open air passengers glided by I yelled out, “Help, I’m having low blood sugar. Help”. And they all looked at me. And...well, did nothing. Yay!

And the tram turnaround thing was maybe only about 150 feet in front of me. You know, the place where the tram makes A STOP. But it didn’t stop, because none of the passengers made any requests, like hey, there’s a girl in distress back there. She looks a little pale. Can we stop for a minute?

So I walked to the turnaround and flagged down a guy and his kid on their bikes. At least they stopped. I told them I thought I might be having a low blood sugar attack, and could they please get the park ranger, and the man said he would. I then went and laid down on the park bench. Kind of felt like a wino or something. But I was feeling so fatigued, and I really wasn’t sure if it was the blood sugar thing or not. My mouth was also really dry. I usually keep glucose tablets in my purse, but I don’t usually carry my purse when I walk.

Smart thinkin’ witty!

Finally after about 7-9 minutes a blonde girl arrived in a truck. She asked if I was all right. Hmm, let me think. Well, I don’t usually lie on park benched looking like Vampira, so we’ll be giving that a negative, good buddy. At first she didn’t want me to get up. She was talking into a walkie talkie giving someone our whereabouts. I finally said I thought I could probably walk, mainly because I really wanted to get to my glucose tabs. I laid against the window as she chattered excitedly. Today was her first day on the job. She usually worked at the snack bar and now she was rescuing people. Yee haw!

I actually didn’t know that she wasn’t the actual park ranger until we pulled up next to a big fancy SUV with the words Park Ranger on the side of it. I guess the snack bar comment should have been a tip off. I was then handed over to Ranger Rick and transferred to the back of his vehicle. It had one of those barred structures separating the front seat and the back. Kinda felt like I was in an episode of a COPS. Whee. Hopefully that’ll be the only time I am in the back seat of a “police” vehicle.

Even in my weakened state, I did manage to bitch about being left in the dust by the tram in my hour of need. He said they shouldn’t have done that and that he would talk to them about that. Whether he was just placating me or not, I’m not really sure, since I was laying in the back seat with my eyes closed. So he drove me over to my car. Got to my purse and got my glucose tablet. He did stay with me for about 10 minutes to make sure I didn’t keel over or anything. And the glucose tablet did help. I felt better in about 15 minutes and then I went to the store across the street and got a donut.

Damn, its so fucking exciting to have an excuse to eat donuts.

....Donuts, gotta have ‘em....Low blood sugar, you know.

So, all in all. Not the best of afternoons. I have been putting off a trip to my doctors about this bleeding thing, but this certainly must be related to all this tiredness. I’m supposed to see Married Guy on Monday for my first massage in five weeks. That is very close to a record for the longest time without a massage. And I don’t want to miss that, so I will probably have to make a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon, and see what’s happening.

As much as I grouse about life, I do want to make sure that my Alternate Ending Universe is as fabulous as possible.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty