My Brain is Working Overtime

And last night, I had two separate dreams about Werner Herzog.

In the first dream, he was filming a documentary on carnivals. One of his behind-the-scenes people was erecting a cluster of large carnival tents, and he complimented her on her capabilities.

“Jenny, that trip to Europe did you good. You learned how to perfect the art of setting up carnival tents.”

In the second dream, Herzog and his crew were shooting a documentary on the canals of Venice, but the boat in which they were filming was sinking. All that was left above the water was the crow’s nest, and sitting in it were Herzog, his right hand man, and their camera. I don’t know if they were going to jump ship, or go down with it, but they did not appear to be in any imminent danger, nor did they seem worried.

Pink Pie For Everyone

I had a dream this morning.

I was sitting outside an elementary school with a friend and we were about to play Trivial Pursuit.

I asked him what colour piece he wanted to be. That he could be any colour except pink.

He said he wanted to be the pink one.

I said he couldn’t because I was going to be pink.

So we argued about it while I picked out the pie pieces that were stuck in the pink pie, and I pulled out the blue pie and the green one, too. I was toying with the idea that since both of us wanted to be pink, neither of us should be pink.

Then I discovered that there was another bag of pie in the box, so I told my friend that we could, after all, both be pink.

But that before we played, I needed a kiss.

He asked what kind of kiss.

I said a nice kiss.

And we made out.

It was a nice dream.

I Had a Fabricgasm!

I am currently basking in the afterglow of a job well done.

I completed my most difficult project to date. Without giving away all my secrets, I made a wicked motherfucking gown. Yards of lace were involved, as well as an exterior bumpad.

And now, on to the next one.

I hope I can muster up the courage to last through ten more weeks of high energy creating. This past week was intense.

Strange thing about art; when you are pushing yourself to the limits of your capabilities, and learning as you go along, it can be really draining. Emotionally, mentally, and physically, too.

I’m going to look positively geriatric by the time I’m finished.

Crystal Bollocks

Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing everything wrong.

Maybe I should have gone to school for something practical, instead of not going at all and teaching myself an art that will never make me a living.

And maybe I should have gotten married at some point.

Like I had the option to do either of those things.

If my life had turned out differently, it would have gone like this:

High school, Ontario College of Art and Design for drawing and painting, waitressing.

Instead of how it actually went:

High school, hitchhiking across Canada, managing a candle store, waitressing, teaching myself fashion design.

There was never a point in my life where I would have decided to stick with sciences or mathematics in order to properly plan out my future. I hated those subjects, and I liked art. So I did art. And I continue to do art, and to enjoy it.

And as far as getting laid goes, I’m not. Nor am I kissing, hugging, sucking, licking or making eye contact. Had I been married, I likely wouldn’t be appreciating any of that anyway, after this many years, and I probably would be longing for some independence.

I know what I’m like.

But still, this heart beats a lonely tune, and I miss physical contact. Being wanted, having a bone press against my ass in the night, getting phone calls, being told that I am loved and loving someone back in that special non platonic manner.

Secretly, all I really miss is the bone in the night.

And maybe some hugs.