Oh, right- wasn't this blog supposed to be about writing? And art? My writing and my art? No no, that was someone else's blog...
All RIGHT, All right, yes, it was me...
So. I come home from my two weeks of holiday, and in the huge pile of mail is the letter I was expecting;
Dear would-be student,
your printmaking course has been canceled due to lack of interest blah blah blah.....
I received an identical letter last fall. I was struggling then, too, to figure out what it was I was supposed to be doing, what I wanted to be doing. I asked myself, 'why did fate allow this course to be cancelled?' Then I found out I was pregnant and thought, 'oh, that's why.' And then I wasn't pregnant anymore. So the course is cancelled a second time, and I'm not surprised or upset, and don't care why, and then the phone rings. It's the teacher of the course. There has been a mistake, she's been talking to the school faculty, the course will take place, blah blah blah.
Now. Why did this woman have to sound like an over-drugged sing-songy left-behind space hippie on the phone? I could almost see the rainbows and peace symbols and smell the pot. I was so unconvinced, I nearly told the woman I couldn't make it; I was busy every Monday night for the rest of my life, sorry. Why couldn't there have been an instant rapport? A sudden indefinable feeling of trust? The conviction that I would have something exciting and edifying to look forward too on Monday nights? I really could have used that.
So who's steering this, anyway. What is the meaning of life? I am trying so hard, I want to do something good, so SOMEBODY, please, give me sign! In the mean time:
Me: Waiter, bring me a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, please.
Waiter: Yes. Something to drink?
Me: That is a drink. Does the bartender know how to make it?
Waiter: ummm... with sandwiches.
Me: No, I don't want any sandwiches. Does the bartender know how to make a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster or not?
Waiter: Ahh! About five minutes.
Me: Forget it. Just bring me a slice of lemon and a large gold brick.
Chorus of patrons: He's from Barcelona!
(lively jig ensues to the tune of the Blackadder them)
Me: Hang on, is this that improbability drive thing again? (I duck a bowl of petunias as it flies through where my head used to be.)