This morning I wept openly in the back hallway at work in front of anyone who dared meet my barbaric stare, while I begrudgingly stripped my celery green nails of the last of their weekend polish. To backtrack a little, as I walked in this morning and handed a list of six months worth of wrong-doings, my jaw fell. Thanks. What a piss off. I wept and was angry and when it was all over, I went back to my familiar spot at the butcher block and contemplated ramming one of my sharp knives into the back of someone, anyone, but after a cup of black coffee and twenty five white onions chopped ultra hastily, my murderous intentions evaporated. Sadly, my white rage remained for the rest of the hour. I chopped, hard, and miraculously kept all of my fingers. I hate those mornings, arriving chipper and being blind-sided by something or other gone awry due to my own carelessness. Shit. There is no other choice other than owning it, swallowing pride, and working harder. Today I cried because I was tired of being the only one who takes it. I was having none of the conspiracy theory bologna this morning and thus the tears. My fight or flight instincts are pathetic, as both choices always end in tear stained broken heartedness. Anyway, it felt good to unleash some of the inner turmoil that has been simmering for a while, even if said Bologna delivery man (not literally) and I were running off our mouths in between a mountain of bananas and a mountain of flour and in the same room as fifteen odd staff. Awesome. In retrospect, the morning catastrophe was almost a trial run for my brain to work through the white rage that will surely come to a head while away. Good lesson.
After work, I arrived at the familiar million pound doors at the studio and let myself in. Padding into the kitchen/staff area and helping myself to some soup and coffee, I went down and coated some screens in the darkroom (I love coating screens in that room reeking of various poisons, I love it almost as much as printing itself) and puttered around the vault, looking for a cache of posi paper for my current project. Yesterday I started and finished a drawing based on the innards' of my friend Andrew's bag. The only thing on this evening's roster was a few simple, one color prints on nice cardstock and then a one-off on a gorgeous canvas Tony Chestnut tote. Simple, right? Not today. Today I had an audience (of one that I was not expecting) and I got spooked. Not only was my print retched on the canvas bag, my paper prints were a mess as well. The audience of one was the same lovely British woman, Grecci, that I met last week. She was just as warm and lovely this week. I, on the other hand was still a little wild from the morning's altercation and I wasn't into printing today. Lesson learned: don't print on canvas or expensive paper on off days. Shit. Grecci came back to Martha again to give me a card! I would have liked to sit and have a cup of tea with her at the light table, but it was too hectic and my inks were drying and thus there was no time for tea. Having someone watch while I print on fabric is always intense. You get one shot to register, one shot to nail it, one shot to make it sharp. I felt like I let Grecci down. Oh well, can't win 'em all. I cleaned up my pens and exacto knives from my usual corner spot and high tailed it out of there in shame, clutching her gorgeous gifted card to my chest like a bar of gold with my head hung low.
The bus driver let me on even though my transfer was quite obviously expired. I can only imagine my facial expression as I held two of the nicest prints of the evening in one hand, and her card in the other. Pathetic. Thanks, man. I got off the bus at the same time as the handsome older Nigerian gentleman who belongs on the Sartorialist. We ride transit on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursday together. He never sits, he is a giant of a man. This man who is quite easily 6'6" or taller, has this gorgeous crocodile attaché case that he carries everywhere. He wears it well, trust me. I would kill to draw the contents of his bag. We got off the bus and his long legs got the best of me and I gave up trying to match his pace just so that I could imagine what was inside his carry all. Walking alone, the light fading, moisture in the air and in my hair, I took it all in. Even the smell of lingering sewer coming from the west, I took it all in. My neighborhood at nine at night. I see my neighborhood at nine in the morning and nine at night. The rest of the hours are spent in: time poured through strainers, through screens, through a lens, through keyboards, through drafting pens. I will miss it at night, but I will miss it in the morning most.
On a lingering note, it looks like Jessica Alba just might have landed a lover before I did. Lucky girl. More on this later.