Tuesday, October 21, 2008
It had been several weeks since she participated in the art show. Since then she had not really drawn, colored or created anything artistic fearing her muse had deserted her like a vagabond lover once again. Trying to not let such intimidating thoughts consume her, she told herself she'd cut out ideas and poured all her love into photography by taking at least a photo a day. Some days more than others. Other days nothing. She knew she would always have a shot for a future rainy day when her well of inspiration had run completely dry or she lost her "eye". Sure she'd done a simple doodle here and there, but nothing noteworthy. Nothing to write home about. Maybe adding an additional line here then nothing for days on end.
Recalling her depression when the words went away the day love departed over twenty years ago, she did not want to return to those dark days to that black depth into the deep endless void. Not back to those potholes of her life. She would not sink like the Titanic again. She did not put any pressure on herself. Although she'd been asked a number of times if she'd drawn or painted lately. It reminded her of when folks would ask when she was going to get married or when she was going to have a baby. It wasn't as sore a spot yet, but could certainly fester into one. It pained her to say she had not done neither any painting or drawing. Yet when she said she'd taken photographs, one older woman looked disappointed like she was a one hit wonder. Although she felt good about being a photographer, sharing her photos with friends and family and no one could take that feeling away from her.
She'd cleaned out her purse because she hurt her back. Searching through her bag for a peppermint to soothe her sore throat, she found of all things a small crumpled piece of tin foil. Now who carries tin foil around with them? She hat to laugh at herself. She'd kept it because she was going to see how well it would stamp with a micropore black ink pad. She tried it and it did not work very well or at least not to her perfectionist's liking. Thinking it a waste of time and ink, she noticed the tell-tale ink on her fingers. Ah, the evidence left behind. She went to the sink to wash it away with blue Dawn, but no matter how much she washed, there was always still some ink left on her digits. She blamed it on the fact that she had too much acid in her body. Anytime her hand had been stamped for craft fairs, not nightclubs, it took days for the ink to wear off.
Although she would never be the type of woman to have an affair or go to a nightclub without her husband, she knew she could not because she would surely get caught. The ink would tell the tale for her.
"Oh, No! Out damn spot!" She thought inside her head. Not that such thoughts served any purpose or comfort for her.
She could hear her CSI husband now questioning her, "You've been inking again, haven't you?"
There was no denying it. "Yes," she admitted guiltily and weakly to herself like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She was a stampaholic. She was addicted to it and could now admit it aloud. Yet she could not afford to attend another stamping class because she was already in debt up to her neck in rubber stamps. Even when she had no stamps handy, she resorted to any form of stamping she could find such as rubber eraser heads at work. But you could only stamp so many dots in red, black, blue and green. You couldn't possible justify a hot pink ink on an office supply order. Yes, she needed help. Yet she knew of no known organization called "Stampahoics Anon."
She couldn't possibly sell any of her stamps at a yard sale cheaply as her mom once threatened to do. They were like her babies and she couldn't part with them. So what was she to do?
Just keep on being creative no matter what anyone says. She reminded herself that she is trully an artist now and no one can take that away from her.