Recovering the Past (with Papier Mache)
A rant for those who are not interested and some who are, and for those who are not and yet who may become. My creative process for this summer consists of the use of barking dogs and habitual therapists who tend to reside in my head for the days and weeks of July. I thought of a lovely idea for a novel and then promptly forgot about it. Every glitch in my relationships, my work and my schedule are symbolic of some greater threat which I can name, but cannot alter. Hmm.
Given that I am in revolt against the timeless moments of despair that accompany my job, I am quite bitter. And sour too. I need gin and tonic to lighten the mood. But not in the morning. In the morning I need to sleep. For deep longish periods. Weeks at a time if I can manage it. The afternoons might find me napping after a heavy breakfast and a long movie. The evenings are cool and breezy and allow me time to go to the Jazz festival, where I walk through the crowds, farting every now and again and blaming it on other people.
It is time to go to my work and complain about it to everyone I meet, including the people I work with. Perhaps with some more time, I can begin a fourth job and have even less of a life. Hmm, the possiblities await.
I bleese all your frolics in the sun "spurting timothy white sun cream over your purilent, fleshy, swollen bodies."Isn't Monty Python wonderful?