Brainshambles

I pulled crinkled pages out of the printer this evening, looked at my hands, and just as quick as I had scrubbed them clean–they were covered in black ink. I rubbed my fingers voraciously only to realize that I was smudging ink deeper into skin. And it hit me, like a train to the brain. I stopped and stared at these now dirty, stained fingers…swiveled my chair, and continued typing as if nothing was wrong. I had almost forgotten how it feels, ink on hands. It feels good. I used to paint with oils all the time in summer and go into work the next day looking like I hadn’t showered. Of course I showered. But those oils always lingered, and I liked them. I liked feeling as if my craft was always on my sleeve. Because it always was.

I’d like to think like the masses, and pretend like everything has fallen this way or that for a reason. I’m not modeling in Paris or nursing at the Cleveland Clinic because there is some greater, bigger plan for me. Sure. Delightful.

What a cop-out. Seriously? I am here because I made my life this way. I made choices. I was foolish, young and reckless. But I continue to make choices. And with a little guidance, a little experience and a little blind FAITH (in self?) perhaps those choices will lead me straight to the yellow brick road. In the mean time, maybe I need to stop buying shoes and start buying bricks. And yellow paint. Bright yellow paint.

I love you, Judy Garland.

(And I remember how crushed I felt when I learned that the horse in the Wizard of Oz was white. There were two, and they weren’t even painted. They dyed them with Jell-O and used clever lighting.)