Sadly — very, very sadly — our beautiful, wonderful apartment home is being foreclosed. I wish I could put into decent words how I feel about this, but I can’t. In short, I am slightly devastated & just a little bit angry. (Just a teeny bit.)
We found out this terrible news through text message, of all the annoyingly modern, “convenient” ways to tell someone. Lover found out first; his conversation with me about it started with: “Babe… I have bad news.” I loathe it when someone says this, but especially Lover, because when he says it’s bad news, it’s horrible news. He went on to tell me that the Realtor sent him a message saying that the bank now owns our apartment house & we have 30 days to vacate the premises, after they post a written notice on the residence.
Imagine that. What a completely shocking thing to be notified about. (& on text message, of all the maddening things!) There was no warning; no indication that this might happen to us. & while I am fretting, Lover is barely flinching. To him, we have more than enough time to sort this out, to find a new apartment. As for me… I am scrambling; I am stressing. But I am trying my damnedest to keep a steady head & not become a raging worry wart, which just so happens to be one of my most shameful (but best) qualities
I was speaking to a fellow tenant of ours last night about this whole ordeal & he said that while he is as angry as I am about the shadiness of these events, he is looking forward to finding a new place. He says it’s like shopping. He said: “I love to take my time & search for places in different towns & cities. You know, if you think of it like shopping, you’ll have a great time with it.” & I replied, “But… I hate shopping.” He laughed, astounded at this, & said, “Well, then… that is a problem, isn’t it?” I concur.
To calm my nerves, I stayed up late last night to paint.
When I had first started the picture, it was looking a lot like a piece of shit — I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true — but I managed to keep my wits about me & it is turning into a colorful, whimsical, full of potential kind of piece. It’s taken me more than 3 months to actually attempt to finish, & I am not yet done. I think it’s turning out quite lovely.
Although… I wish I could be a better painter. I feel a bit stuck with resorting to modest abstract paintings, since I cannot draw for the life of me. I have tried, yes; I once painted a picture of a black stiletto next to a tube of mascara with its brush. (I was mimicking a Clinique ad I saw in a magazine.) Underneath the picture I wrote in French “The Stiletto & The Mascara.” For a first try, it looked well enough; almost impressive. But taking that out of the equation, it was pretty awful.
While I was painting, I had the strongest, strangest urge to smoke a cigarette, as though it would spark more imagination in my mind. Come to think of it, I almost lit one up. I started to walk towards Lover’s bag, where he keeps the Cancer sticks, & had to stop myself & ask, What ARE you doing? You don’t smoke! & indoors of all places! Go sit down, for Heaven’s sake. I realized then that when I get terribly stressed & restless, like last night, that is when I crave cigarettes most. While I am not a smoker, the cravings become so strong that I have lucid dreams about it. Actually, I wrote about my obsession with cigarettes & smoking once before. I am ashamed to say that it’s only gotten worse since then. Even now, I’d love to nurse one…
& because I haven’t been creative enough to make a decent fashion statement lately — it’s been tights & shorts all week, which is more than played out but doesn’t phase me — I wore my painting instead, clad in nothing but paint & bed-head. I can never create art without it ending up all over the place, including my neck, my arms, my legs & my face.
I sleep much better when I let out my anguish with the help of vibrant colors & a stiff brush.