It's an art show. Not a gamma ray bombardment. Still, I'm stressed. Why do this to myself? Are you kidding? I LOVE it! The detritus of creativity is fulsome even when it is rushed. You always get a high from creation.
Cleaned as part of the crew for Gala Corina Saturday. I say this weakly because I felt like the 5th teat on a boar. So many more competants abounding while I carried my cleaning supplies in the obligatory box from one destination to the other. I am not needed.
Should I celebrate or feel guilty? Get it done, oh vagrant youth with the body that doesn't tremble on a ladder. Paint walls until your clothes take on the tint of the pigment and the joints that don't freeze up into uncomfortable position have covered the 9 mile stretch of need to be spruce. Vacuum and pound and connect electrical circuitry until you have everything singing at the end of a switch. I'll sit over here and watch you.
The deal is, we're supposed to work as artists at Gala Corina. To participate means that you have to donate in kind to the drona of the show. I can give, have the will to, but the fact is that the flesh that is willing to create is less likely to perform on cue when called upon for physical labor.
Okay. Let's call the cat black here. I cannot participate much beyond a creative level. No matter. I have put out my soul in the month before making a new work. Swept Under. My labor hours are counted etherically. More about that later.