I’ve developed insomnia. Perhaps I’ve gotten old but I seem to be quite able to get by on twenty minute’s sleep once every four hours. You think I’d get more work done, eyes snapping open at four in the morning, cat staring down at me from her perch above my bed. Perhaps she wakes me.

So I put on my toque and slip into my red long johns and make tea. I put a log on the fire. Buttoning the back door. Cold in the studio. We had snow. At last. People seem to think it some sort of Katrina, the same people who last week were giving me meaningful looks about ants on the kitchen counter in January, not noting my housekeeping these people but in the know about global warming. And worried.

I position the cat…she has her favorite positions. Most of these involve her haughty glances , stroking, my eventual numbness, then pins and needles. Then her small claw flexes. It goes no farther. It all brings back memories of not quite so bachelorish times.

I tap on the itune shuffle…which is something old yuppies do, in the middle of the night in retirement homes everywhere, hurrying to the bathroom. Ambient world music kicking in the lower bowel. First thing I hear is…she tapes her regrets to the microphone stand, she says you can’t hold the hand of a rock and roll man for very long or count on your plans with a rock and roll man…very funny, jesus. Timing is everything. Switch rapidly to a little “Slim”, only thing I can really relate to out of all the music I rip off and I don’t know who it is. But somebody out there is reading my mail. Like to play a little tune for y’all now called “My Dangerous Life”. Let’s crank her up kitty and put the booty back in booty. Six thirty in the morning, deep blues, deep snow. “So hard, so tough, Too much, too far…”

One thing snow shoveling does is remove the bloggers crick in my shoulders, the imac hunch. And more cheaply than the gym. Our local gym, called “Simply Fit” is way too close to Macdonald’s. Just across the parking lot and behind the body shop for cars. We call our gym “Simply Fat” and never go there. I’m too thin to ever go there. I would be killed and eaten likely the look of some of the porkers rolling in and outa there. Jaysus. I hope to be limber enough by seven am to shovel the back driveway and put out the garbage properly for the boys. The front I cleared with surgical neatness and a vigor let alone ability that surprised me yesterday. I’d been thinking in terms of a walker since Christmas, rather hopefully I guess, but no, I seem fit, able. Hardly wheezed or broke a sweat. Or a hip.

Painting begins today. I’ve neither drugs or inspiration so elbow grease will have to do. I’ve been checking out other artist’s blogs. Each takes a year off my life so I must quit that. God the enthusiasm and the hope, the course taking, the energy of the innocent perhaps. I should be vivified I suppose, get some kind of contact high, but I’m left with only the surety that I never felt that hope about art in my life, left too with a discreditable urge to strangle something with my bare hands. I started painting late I guess. If I hear one more person go on about art being therapeutic, healing. Christ. Sure did old Van Gogh a world of good. Chrissake. I’d rather be decorative. I suppose the activity has to be justified in some way, not everyone can make money at it, and it’s far too self amusing an activity to be above suspicion certainly, and rightly so, but therapeutic? Almost as bad as “subversive”. I suppose masturbatory vainglory looks kinda shabby on the curriculum and the artist’s statement. But I aways liked a little masturbatory vainglory. I could do with a little around here now Jack. Little more snow shoveling and I might be able to manage it myself.

Billy’s working on a big landscape. He phoned yesterday, described his moves. Not a lot of new age natter there. The words “stupid cunts” came up several times. Praise the Lord. Which reminds me, I ran across a very charming blog yesterday morning about this time and I linked to it in the sidebar ( find and click “BiB”). Kinda redeems this whole blogging nonsense. I was feeling a little grotty about it. The nice gentleman uses the word “cunt” as a personality type identifier several times I notice, incidentally, casually and elegantly, like Billy does. I like it. So watch your ears ya big crybaby. Big suck. Get real.

I have a therapist friend, a Jungian, and she’s always worried about sounding too new agey, which she never does to me. Good on her. But anyone with a serious vocation seems to me to live in constant fear of that studio tour mentality where incredibly shallow people traipse through your studio like tourists/hall monitors and see, as Bert put it “What the sensitive people are doing for us today”, pick up a little enlightenment between frapillatos, and a few eccentric decorating tips.

I have two stuffed bears. Just little ones. The one is quite cute really but the other is badly stuffed about the nose and eyes, or perhaps was a downs cub. I had a very funny woman, I think she was funny, I hope she was, give me along spiel about how I should burn them in the yard and return their spirits to the cosmos. They’re posed up a real tree. Volunteer firemen would love that. Mebbe I’ll save them for a children’s party some warm summer dusk. Smell real nice for the fall fair up at the fairgrounds on the edge of town, a block away. Looks like Edward Hopper up there at night.

I call the bears Alex and Ovid, after two friends in Louisiana. My little found artistic object/statement thingie commemorating the suffering after Katrina. They came with the building, okay? Thanks to Gai’s family’s fine taste in taxidermy. I forget they’re there until I notice some hippy’s not listening to my explanations for my painterly behavior, but is staring walleyed over my shoulder. Horror. I never fucking let on.

Anyway. Painting begins today. I’ll keep y’all posted.


~ by Rocky Green on January 16, 2007.

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