Celebrating

The gallery openings are tonight for the Salon and the Mayor's show. I'll go, and eavesdrop to see what people say about the jello. Maybe they will just think it is glass and criticize that pink piece on the side of the face that doesn't seem to fit so well. I'm sure they'll find things to criticize, as we all do because we think we're supposed to.

I never vote in those people's choice things though I'm glad that other people do. I don't like ranking one person's expression over another. I'm sure that comes from standing with 200 other artisans all trying for the same dollars. I don't want to admit that anyone is better than me, so I can''t be better than anyone else either. We're all us.

Writing this essay on women and aging is kicking me hard, as it should. I have a really hard time accessing my terror and fragility. I see that I have worked very diligently over the decades to keep it from bubbling up. Every morning when I fight the gathering anxiety in my belly I just get out of bed and start making breakfast and the rituals of my day. Lately I have been trying to let it flow over me, trying to feel it, and that does make it less frightening and more a normal emotion I can pass through.

But I do better if I keep it well under control, it seems. I try to keep so much under control. I suppose this is the human condition and we all try to find relatively healthy ways to do this. I'm thinking of the Steve Martin movie, Grand Canyon, when they describe their lives as a roller coaster and say you just have to ride. I don't know; maybe one more safety strap would be better.

In today's version of the essay I expound upon how vulnerable we make ourselves every time we sell, how terrifying this is, and how we are really just begging the customers to need our stuff. It doesn't look as desperate as it gets sometimes; we work hard at hiding our despair and how high our hopes get. Everything has to look normal, no pressure, no matter if you decide not to come back like you said you would, no matter if you spend your money on something else, something easier for you, something from Waldemort or wherever. You have your unexpressed needs, I have mine.

I don't want anyone to know how scared I get. It's like when someone is crying or puking it makes me want to cry or puke too. We all have to keep it together so we all can keep it together. I think that is why it is so horrifying to watch any kind of misfortune (and so compelling). We test ourselves against it. Would I survive that? Would I make that choice? What will I do when it is my turn?

I mean, the unspoken end of all of our essays and ponderings is our deaths. We will all end up there, and in a few months or years we will be mostly forgotten. The art I so delight in will be in the dump and I might last as a legend for a little while because of all my diligent output, but no matter how much art I make, it doesn't really help me to control what really scares me.

But the writing really does help. I just spent over two hours focused on articulating my terror and it didn't make it any worse. At least I remembered that everyone is right there with me.

Or if I can write really well they will be. If I can do everything right, choose the correct words and get that structure illuminated, they will go right with me down and then back out. Oh yeah, I have to bring them back out. Better go work on it some more.