I cringed. Why was that necessary?
I'm sure he doesn't consider himself racist. In fact, he condemns racism. And probably I am not familiar enough with his m.o. I mean Louis C.K. certainly breaks the bounds of propriety. So I could be wrong. But he lost me. Sorry, Patton. I just couldn't watch any more.
~~~
I had another wretched nightmare full of violence. This time, it featured ex-husband-guy. And his venom, as portrayed by my subconscious, was so true to life that I woke up feeling queasy and scared. This dream had an added feature of sexual abuse of minors and offspring. It was the last dream I had before waking, which is why it's so hard to shake.
I marvel at the way the mind works. I believe dreams occur for a reason. They aren't just the offspring of late night Chinese food. Although, I am beginning to feel that there is a correlation between drinking wine and having nightmares.
See what I just did? I referred to my late night food as Chinese. Is that racist?
Is it necessary to refer to people by their allotted nationalities? I feel this is an arbitrary categorization based on boundaries established by men hundreds of years ago.
At any rate...
Prior to the nightmare, I had a nice dream in which I saw Sweet Sally Possum out in the wild. She smiled at me. This made me feel incredibly happy. I will try very hard today to focus on the smiling possum rather than the aforementioned awfulness.
~~~
Yesterday, I met with a doctor about having a colonoscopy. The doctor who will perform this procedure is a beautiful East Indian lady. And I only mention her nationality because I have an envy of the beauty of East Indian women. I want to dive into their bosoms and inhale their musk. This sounds sexual, but it is so much more than that.
At any rate...
I was in the process of cleaning a house that is about to go up for sale when I had to dash off to the colonoscopy doctor. I was improperly dressed. My jeans were my standard paint-spattered and grimy. I had on my neon pink "Who Arted?" t-shirt. I was sweaty and gross. I drove like the devil to get to my appointment on time, all the while, strategizing.
When I reached the parking lot, I stealthily removed my t-shirt and put on a sweater that I had worn over it in the chill of the early morning. I used the water from my water bottle to dampen my t-shirt and wipe the sweat and grime from my face and neck. My arms would be covered by the sleeves of the sweater. I wiped off my Merrills, which are casual but could easily pass as dressy casual when the dirt is removed. My jeans, I decided, had been bought at Nordstrom's. I was cutting edge. Thanks, Nordstrom's, for giving me permission to dress like a slob.
When I walked into the reception area, I noticed the receptionist acknowledge my presence and then immediately look at my jeans. I didn't let it faze me. They were from Nordstrom's.
The nurse who took me back into the examination room similarly stared at my jeans. I felt an instant of judgment so I decided to let her in on my Nordstrom's joke. She hadn't heard about the $425 jeans with fake mud on them. So we had a good laugh and I successfully broke through her icy demeanor.
I was left to wait for the doctor in the examination room with only a diagram of the digestive system to keep me company. I stood up to examine it closely. I read about the functions of the duodenum and the villi. The villi really get me. I mean seriously, what a brilliant system. This body that allows me to enjoy a planetary existence is a delicately balanced ecosystem that demands respect and care. Not the abuse I usually heap upon it. I treat my body like a giant landfill sometimes. Dumping crap in it that does nothing for its healthy functioning.
I was standing there, marveling at the magnificent engineering of the human body when the doctor entered the room. Her eyes met mine and we shook hands. She has a very gracious smile. It wasn't until I hopped up on the examination table that she commented on my jeans. "Are you a painter?" she asked. I admitted that I am. She asked if I am a house painter or an artist and I told her that I do both. She asked about the sort of art I do with genuine interest. And she smiled as she said, "You are so fortunate. I wish I could paint. I am not artistically inclined at all." I replied, "Everyone is artistically inclined!"
"Oh? You just have to practice, eh?"
"No! You just have to play! Art is fun!"
She asked about my masks and then about papier mache. She told me about the elaborate paper mache lamps and bowls in India. She spoke with a passion for beauty and a deep appreciation of art. Again, she made a regretful comment about her lack of artistic skill and said, "It is interesting, the choices we make." And I said, "Not to downplay the fact that you are a doctor or anything..." and she laughed heartily. And I thought you're going to go up into my bowels, for goodness sake! The skill required to maneuver a precision course like that....if that isn't artistry, I don't know what is!
What a strange and beautiful moment. What a strange and beautiful life.
After I left the doctor's office, I drove home where I ate a bit of lunch, changed back into the t-shirt I had just used as a washcloth and shoeshine cloth and proceeded to finish cleaning the house I was working on. At the end of the day, I stood back and admired my work. There is artistry in everything we do as long as we are working for the betterment of a situation or a thing. And this is why art, and only art, will save us.
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