A visit to the art studio

I went to the studio today. I initially felt like crying because I didn't know where to begin in terms of setting up the room. It felt so strange and lonesome. I eventually was able to get started by doing it the Marie Kondo way-- emptying out all of the drawers and cabinets completely, throwing out unwanted objects, and then putting things away neatly and sensibly. This is the way I always end up cleaning things, but it seems impossible sometimes to bring oneself to do it because it causes a bigger mess, at first, than what you started with. And if you're already overwhelmed to begin with, it can be a hard choice to make.

The studio has giant windows which let in and trap the sun's heat like a greenhouse, so I got quite tired after a few hours sheerly from the warmth. Still, I am glad with the progress I made. Most interesting event: I stumbled across a bag of play dough we had made in February of 2020. Flour + cream of tartar + vegetable oil + the germs from small children's hands + one year of fermentin' time = haunted petri dish on LSD. This thing was ELDRITCH. It looked like a sentient fruit cake. There was no longer any recognizable dough left in the bag at all-- it was a solid log of technicolor mold which was seeping black pus. Words cannot adequately describe the horror (though I hope I've come close).

I also rescued a few things my boss had put into the donation pile-- a tea-party-themed board game, two Beanie Babies (Neon the seahorse and Bushy the lion), and a couple of knitted dolls that I don't particularly care to keep for myself, but which I can use in a future classroom because they suit my teaching aesthetic (washed-out pastels, soft stitched features, cuddly and gentle).

When I left and got on the bus, there were no seats available, so I stood up for the full thirty minutes and winced at the joint pain I felt at each turned corner. I was initially in a pleasantly dreamy mood because my boyfriend had sent me some flirty text messages, but the dreaminess slowly dissipated as I stood next to a man with the physique of an American Bully who was muttering angrily under his breath for the whole bus ride. I thought in a disconnected way that I could possibly die-- strange male having a bad day in public -> shooting? The pandemic is winding down, so the old ever-present threat of male terrorism returns once again.

I got off a few stops early at the Safeway, partly to avoid the doglike man, and partly so I could hang out in the air conditioning for a while and cool down. While I was there I bought orange juice, a container of fried rice, strawberry conditioner, a candy bar, and double chocolate muffins from the bakery. I felt lonely, but in a pleasant way. I don't know, there are different types of loneliness. There is the hollow, existential loneliness I feel sometimes that is nearly unbearable (the song Nobody by Mitski encapsulates the maddening sensation quite well). But there is another type of loneliness I feel that is caused by becoming momentarily aware of the rich uniqueness of my own consciousness and of my experiences; no matter how close I am to another person, or how similar a person's point of view might be to mine, I am still alone in this reality in that I am myself, and telepathic communion is impossible. My perspective is a discrete data point in spacetime which can never be replicated fully, or perfectly communicated to another. It's simultaneously horrible and wonderful-- I am alone, but these moments are mine, only mine.

I cried while carrying my grocery bag on my hip, walking into the sunset and squinting against the blinding Pacific. I don't remember what made me cry. Seeing orange poppies beside the curb, maybe. Maybe because I am twenty-six and for a moment the number felt accurate. Maybe because I was tempted to buy a little serving-size cup of Cherry Garcia ice cream, and I didn't, because it reminds me of my mother and of a high school boyfriend, who both used to buy it for me sometimes.

No one notices when I cry in public under ordinary circumstances; wearing a mask increases my invisibility. I can pass by tearfully, incognito.