Last month, I decided that I would shake off the sloth of the past … oh, about year and a half, and get with the program again. Or at least get with as much of the program as I can. So I vowed that I would, come first September, head into town and see all the shows and not just that, write up first impressions. That sort of thing. Be industriously unemployed, rejoin the living, that sort of thing.
It is now September 5. I’ve done nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. Just nothing useful. In the past five days, I’ve splattered hot soup over myself. From what I can decipher of the scab patterns, I have the British Virgin Islands on my chest and a horizontally-flipped Madagascar on my wrist. Note: if you ever do indulge in spectacular burn-inducing acrobatics like I did, the thing to do is to a) stick burnt body part under cold water and b) slap ice on it. Keep the ice on it for at least 20 minutes. Works like a charm. Well, as much of a charm as can be worked on a burn.
I’ve watched five infected teeth (not mine) being pulled out of someone’s mouth.
On one evening, I got pretty much blitzed by three people who have had a crush on me or on whom I’ve had a crush. All of them were bored and decided to try their luck, as it were. Let me clarify that juggling SMS-es, emails and instant messages between three bored, emotionally-retarded bastards (I attract and have been attracted to the very best, what can I say?) is not only time consuming but also a delicate affair, particularly when I’m also making sloppy food for aforementioned tooth-extracted person. Bleddy smartphones.
Not just that, I’ve come to the tragic realisation that I can no longer stay unemployed. This isn’t tragic because I dislike 9 to 5 employment. I don’t. I mean, I don’t LOVE it but I don’t mind it. The tragedy lies in the process of looking for a job and either finding nothing or being rejected by everyone.
Plus, I wrote a very short story called “The Harrumph Gallumph”. As you might be able to tell from the title, it is extremely dense, philosophical, epistemological … stuff.
I also wrote something else, an obituary for Jehangir Sabavala, who must have been the nicest and most charming artist I’ve ever met. Also the only real gentleman I’ve ever met. RIP. I’m not sure whether it would have been easier to write his obituary if I’d actually liked his paintings but the fact was that I wanted to talk more about his cravats and moustache than I did about his work. Sigh.
So this is what I’ve been doing while there’s been a printmaking workshop at Gallery Maskara, new paintings at Project 88 and Galerie Mirchandani + Steinruecke, a new photography exhibit at Matthieu Foss Gallery and god knows what else. I feel like I should have behind me a mobile sign flashing “#loser”.
EDITED TO ADD: While on the subject of losers, what does lift my self-esteem though are some of search terms used to find this blog. See below.