I feel overwhelming pressure to bring out the fireworks for this one, to woo you with all that I have left in what little there is to me to begin with. This may be the last of the Twelve, but it’s not quite the end. I have one more post to write after this one. It will be then, Reader, that I’ll bring out the fireworks, the sparklers, the pops and bangs of a hopefully grand exit.
Right now: Art-A-Whirl.
I began my morning with obligation. I had decided to go to the Walker Art Center as my final place. My chief objective was to rant and rave about modern art and quite snootily turn my nose up at it and let the world know my opinions on the idea of a red square in the middle of a canvas being conceived as actual art. Oh it’s art all right. It’s called con art. Bullshit. But alas! My opinions were to be tucked away for another time.
The morning was not kind to me. I decided to hit a few garage sales before getting ready for the Walker Art Center. I left the house in minimal make-up, running pants, cheap dorky shoes, and a goofy T-shirt I only wear around the house. Clouds were predicting my fate, but I ignored them. I shouldn’t have. Rain came down like the wrath of god, and after successfully getting only half-drenched at the first garage sale I went to, purchasing a fine deal on a tool box and tools, my luck faltered from not-too-bad to get-me-the-hell-out-of-here.
The rain was torrent. I tried another garage sale as the pellets of water shot down from above as if heaven and its angels were armed with machine guns. I ran into the garage only to see a man looking at me with pity as he says, “Sorry, we just packed everything up for Good Will…” All the cars in the driveway were very deceiving, I think to myself. The open garage door was quite deceiving too. Take your stupid signs down, then, man. Damnit. I had parked a few spots down the road. I turned, I sighed, and ran pell mell back through the bullets of rain and into the car. Completely soaked I sat in the car for a few minutes thinking how the weather was all together a horrible omen. I did not feel like going to Walker at all. This was supposed to be it. This was the end of the month of May and I had to finish my blog places rain or shine, hail or tornado, and I was pissed about it.
I had other things on my mind too. This didn’t help my mood. I was obsessing, as usual, about things that in the long grand scheme of things don’t matter at all in the end. I have a frequent, nasty habit of over-analyzing the minutest of problems, driving myself mad through the muck of it. I had recently ran myself through a very long stretch of muck, and here I was wet, cold, disappointed, unmotivated, and feeling exponentially sorry for myself. As I blasted the heat in the car, my hair went up into an almost instant fro.
I had left the house in the hopes of finding furniture for my future apartment. I had left the house in hopes of being productive. I spent $50 to fill a gas tank that wasn’t even mine, all to drive around in a perpetual downpour through a town forty minutes away from home, find nothing but a toolbox and the conclusion to my mood which was borderline clinical depression. Every once and awhile I go through a painful period of self -loathing and hopelessness. I get discouraged easily – not an easy thing to admit, let me tell you. I’m tempted to hit that delete key right now… But no. This blog is about personal growth. You can’t grow if you don’t start confessing to the things that are ugly about who you are. You can’t change them unless you confront them.
So. This was one of my down moments. I was feeling like I was never going to be able to move on and get out of my parents’ basement. In consequence I was feeling like I was never going to be able to date properly, to live my own life properly, to be myself entirely in an environment of independence. I was regretting the wasted money on gas. I was regretting coming out at all. I should’ve just showered, put on the good make-up, put on a descent set of clothes instead of the frump garb I was donning, and gone to Walker.
I headed home. I was driving my mother’s CRV (for I had set out with hopes of finding furniture, remember) and I had the radio on. I never listen to the radio, really. But as I was zoning in and out of grief and despair over the fate of my patheticness and whether or not I was ever going to be cured of it, something the DJ said on the radio snapped me out of it. She was saying something about Art-A-Whirl being today… I had completely forgotten about this grand event, brought to my attention no less than from the man I’ve been dating. He mentioned it on our first date, at Merlin’s. I had completely forgotten about it. Fate! When it’s convenient, I believe in it. This was one of those moments when I believed.
I made the long way home. I hopped onto my laptop and searched for Art-A-Whirl information. Held throughout the art district of Minneapolis, Art-A-Whirl is a sort of festival of independent art shows held in studios throughout the district. They’re held in random buildings like churches, apartments, et cetera. Jotting down the info I needed in my trusty little notebook, I tried to psych myself up to go. I didn’t want to. I was torn. I felt rushed. The weather was no help. But I really wanted to make myself do it. I knew it was the perfect way to end my blog, but I was wishing that I had been in a brighter, more positive version of myself rather than the slug version that was possessing my spirit. So I left the house, still in my awful frump garb and ungodly frizzy hair with the intention that I would pop down there, take a bunch of pictures, visit a handful of exhibits and call it a day. Get it over with and just go. So that’s what I did.
The sun decided to make an appearance on my way down. It decided to make a very hot appearance. I drove down the streets of northeast Minneapolis watching all the people walk the sidewalks to the exhibits and I felt an extreme sense of regret: I should’ve changed my clothes. I should’ve done my hair. I should’ve freshened up my make-up. I felt like I was thirteen again. This is not a pleasant feeling to experience when your actual age is those numbers switched around: 31. I confronted a lot of old demons as I was trying to be brave and find a parking place. Being in public was the very last thing I wanted at this moment. But there comes a time when you really have to pep talk yourself out of adolescent insecurities and realize that how you’re dressed and how your hair looks is one of the least important things in the world. Grow up. Grow up, Jess.
I found a parking place down a cobblestone road and over some train tracks. Free parking. This definitely works for me.
I found my way to the Waterbury building exhibits.
There was live music, tents with food and beer, and an assortment of people from all ages, all styles, and all walks of life. Hipsters and republicans alike.
I always marvel at how art connects people. We truly do share the same skins and bones. Our costumes vary, as well as our souls, but we all want and need the same wants and needs. Little did I know exactly what my wants and needs were, but by the end of this adventure? I did. It became apparent that change in my life was definitely necessary. I just had to figure out how to be brave enough to embrace it. And do it.
No comments:
Post a Comment