My friend (and fellow artist) Kaye Collins called me up this morning while I was in the middle of a full sadness meltdown, and suggested we do something. “Yes!” I thought to myself, “I will go and do something artistic!” So off I went to the hardware store to buy some lumber and wood glue for my current project inspiration. When we finally met up a few hours later in the heart of Chinatown, we stopped by a jewelry supply store. We stopped and we stayed there. Sorry – I didn’t willing stay there, but rather I was taken HOSTAGE by Kaye’s jewelry supplies browsing. I left my home at 11:45, and we didn’t get back until well after 4pm.
I was about to toss up my hands in frustration at our wasted time when she mentioned she had to submit some poetry to a local publication. Poetry? I love poetry! Well, I love some poetry. From specific people. So that means I like poetry, right? Turns out my international love affair with my creative partner Jacob Moylan (read his stuff here), had some benefits for me here. See, him and I are something of a circular self-inspiring feed-back loop – and when he performs poetry, I want to perform poetry. I have a lot of passable poems written. Maybe a few more mediocre ones. Like polished turds shining in the sun! I’m kidding. I’m actually pretty good. Anyways, you have to submit a minimum of 3, and three poems is about all I’m good for at the moment. So I typed up a professional looking poetic manuscript and submitted that puppy ASAP.
And guess who’s still sitting at my kitchen table muttering to herself? Yup! It’s Kaye. It’s weird though. Usually I can only stand other people in my space for so long, but today I’m cool with it. Usually when the gaping chasm of sadness opens up at my feet I dodge and fall into it soon as I notice it. This time I noticed it and didn’t dodge it’s attack with at-home distractions. This time I left my home and talked to other people. It’s irritating. It’s exhausting. But I did it. The chasm might still be below me, all menacing and “shit”, but I haven’t fallen into it. And who knows. Maybe I’ll get published.