Monday, April 06, 2009
My Butt Hurts
However, forget the dirt, let's all talk about my butt. Oddly enough on Saturday night at Susan's very nice little mellow birthday party, we got to talking about how we were all getting old and less flexible and stuff. There's usually one painful incident where you realize that and for some weird reason for us those incidences seem to revolve around art making. That would be weirder, granted, if most of my friends weren't artists, but anyhow what happens in our peculiar circumstance is this: You start drawing or painting or making pots in a peculiar position in your twenties. All is well with you squatting on the floor or sitting on your bed hunched over with one leg tucked up under the other for hours for years and years and you simply don't think about it - until that fell day when you are making art as usual and suddenly realize that. . . you cannot get up. Or, if you can get up, you have to walk like a chicken for a while and not strictly for comic relief. Congratulations, you are officially old.
So we talked about that at the party and then on Sunday Adam came over with buckets of tile and thin set and I hauled out all my broken dishes (see? Being a packrat is good and it works! I knew that keeping every pottery fragment for years would come in handy!) and we knelt in front of the bunkers and went to work making mosaics like mad for hours. Well, an hour or two, actually. Today, surprise surprise, I can hardly walk. Even like a duck.
In other weekend news, let's see, on Friday Jennifer had an opening at the Clingman Cafe so we all went to that and then we went on over to the Wedge, which was packed. From there we went to my house where I ended up making fried tofu in the middle of the night. I have to learn to keep something better around for impromptu parties. Saturday I accomplished pretty much nothing; Sunday is above and last night Audrey and I went over to hang out with Annie for a while on her lovely porch and then came back to my house to eat. The upstairs of my house is all clean but the downstairs is gross and horrible because Perdita, who I still love, is not as housebroken as one would hope. And the dogs ate the tract that Helen gave me for April Fools Day, damn it, because now I will never learn all the particular details about how Satan was using the Jefferson Airplane to eat my children's souls even though my children weren't born yet in 1971 and I was in fact just starting elementary school and not listening to a whole lot of Jefferson Airplane my own self.