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Thank You Virginia

hemingwayaimIronic isn’t it? Virginia was my intentional first name, but my father got it mixed up, and I was christened someone else. Strange that, as I’ve always felt I was mixed up at birth anyway.

Following a little bit of a ranty post, “Things I’m NOT Thankful For”, my pal, and one of my wonderful mentors sent an email, gently asking what the heck was up with me.

You see, even from across the world, she, like me ‘gets it’. Being sensitive is not an easy thing to be in this world. Not at all. We may feel joy more intensely, but we feel our lack as intensely as well.

So, sitting in the midst of my writing squalor, I took a look around, and thought, well, for one thing, my writing area is a cluttered mess which, metaphorically of course, makes me feel like I’m drowning in paper. Drowning is a familiar feeling in the world of finance, romantic comraderie and life in general for single-parents.  It’s a feeling I can sweep under the rug until I take one giant gulp, and have to wave my hands for help.

So, Virginia saw my hands waving, and asked a few gentle questions.

Was it my latest disappointment in the world of dating douchey-men? Perhaps the bills piling up and my panic over constantly trying to make ends meet? Maybe….

But then I decided quickly, “No, I can deal with all of that stuff”.

“Try visualizing the life you want….”

I didn’t have to look around, or think too very hard. I knew. My creative self has been drowning.  Ironic that as a writer, it’s drowning in words on paper. Ha! Ha-flipping-ha-ha-ha!

Someone pour me a mimosa.

Ironic also that I work in the death and dying ‘industry’, and have been internally hyperventilating since my editor and friend died suddenly last month, making my unchecked manuscript that much more of a guilty reminder that I had yet to review his preliminary edits.

On the outside I look like a force of, “Boy, she’s got it all together”, but on the inside,

I’m a calm, braless, intellect addict dressed in batik, listening to early Bob Dylan songs,  painting and writing all at the same time in my seaside cottage, while my five cats lounge in the sun, and my young, naked lover cooks my breakfast.

How’s that for visualization Virginia?

So, as the rest of Canada slips into a tryptophan comma, I shall begin digging out from under the piles of paper, articles, flyers, lyrics and poems that have gathered in my very tiny, intimate writing space.  Following which I will settle down to methodically put together my novel with the ghost of my brilliant editor guiding me.

Thank you Virginia for having the good sense to ask the obvious.  As always, this Thanksgiving, I AM thankful for the wonderful women in my life who raise me up and carry me along when I’m too dog-tired to do it myself.

 

 

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Confessions of a Gallery Junkie

Musee Rodin - Adam
Musee Rodin – Adam (Photo credit: John Kroll)

You all know by now that I adore my time spent at the local art gallery.

I have been blessed by the art gods, or pan-sexual-life-affirming gods (whomever inspires you my darlings), to live near a world-class gallery.

I spend many a Sunday afternoon sipping wine in the  member’s lounge, chatting to fellow artists, wanna-be artists, or perhaps just myself, Moleskine and smooth writing pen in hand.

Some days I write pages, and other days the page holds out its fabulously, gnarled hand and won’t let me write a damn thing.

Most of all, beyond my nine-to-five life, the gallery feeds the flame of my creativity.

The art feeds my imagination, and what, pray tell,  my sweet, tender ,figs, would an artist be without imagination?

My top ten fantasies inspired by the AGO

1) I finally find that flowing scarf that never snags, flops into my soup, or makes my voluptuous ass look big. I also find the perfect sexy boot that doesn’t make me sound like a Clydesdale clopping across the sacred silence of gallery space.

2) I am bent over the knee of Rodin’s Adam, being shagged mercilessly by a very determined lover. He must be virile and skilled enough to finish the entire job before we get tossed out of my Eden of art forever. Preferably he speaks no English. Better yet, he doesn’t speak at all.

3) All of the books that whet my insatiable appetite for the exchange of ideas are priced reasonably, and I meet a man across the crowded, over-priced gift shop who is as hungry for intellectually stimulating intimacy as I am. (Hopefully this one speaks English, but with a sexy Irish brogue, or French yum-yum-accent).

I’m afraid that sums it up. I know lovey, I know, I did say there were ten fantasies, but I can’t share the rest with you. I’m saving them for someone special.

The gallery inspires me to creative, lustful, philosophy. It’s as simple as that. The other seven fantasies are for that yummy man, whom I meet as he sizes up my books and I size up his, er, um….anyway, our, eyes lock across the crowded bookstore/coffee shop/gallery/coat check/gate/pub/studio, and I know he’s the lucky one.