Artist's Date 10#: Back to Basics
meandering thoughts ahead
My main goals for my artist’s dates, enumerated:
get out of the house
get off of my phone
go into nature
But this past week, I was focusing on getting un-tired, which I could not seem to do. No matter how many times I let Olive watch Peter Pan and I sunk into the bed next to her body.
There’s been some good news on the benign neglect parenting front though: O made a house for her kitties that grows, inconveniently, in the hall above the stairs. It has an elevator made from a purse and beds made from shoes and utilizes an umbrella to hold up a ceiling of a crocheted blue yarn. Also, she misses me, and last night before bed, touched my face in a spider-like pattern and asked me to do the same to hers, to pat her cheeks and her brows in a raindrop like way, with the tips of my fingers. It’s the greatest joy to see her eyelids fall and this time, she grabbed my hand and pressed my palm against her cheek and relaxed with it there until she turned her back to me and feel deep asleep.
That was on Friday night and that was a pleasure. But when I woke up on Saturday morning there was nothing in me, no energy to drive across that golden gate bridge, the high oranges arches lined with walkers and bikers all going this way and that, no interest in the turquoise water that runs through the bay or the wispy clouds that skip at the bottom of the baby blue sky, had nothing for that dark red sand that your feet sink into fast or even the frothy bubbles that spill around the animal sized rocks. No, not even the beach, that heavenly place of far away laughter, held any appeal. I simply wanted to get myself well.
Once, in LA, I went to the Korean spa and breathed in the eucalyptus steam in a small bathroom sized space and felt it had healed me or at least made me feel better in a remarkably short time. I confused this steam room with the one in SF and when I got a last minute morning slot realized only too-late that there was no smell in the steam, just the foggy water pouring out of a mechanical spout. Still, there were so many nice things to note. The sweet thin pink robes you fold yourself into, and the clean flat slippers to wear in the space. The firm touch of a mother-figure when you get a massage, a wet towel heavy between your legs, a bowl of hot water thrown splash on your back, warm milk from a bottle, like some skin elixir, squeezed out and spread over your body, up and then down. Even after this delight my brain kept on going over and over a past disappointment — as if smoothing it out would erase how it felt.
Only after I laid under the infrared lights on that heavy mat / rug, over chunks of salt, in the glowing rose room, did I fall fast asleep, on the squishy brown couch made of fake leather. A strange small plaster butler stands in the resting room and holds up a platter to keep safe your tea. There’s a fish tank on the wall where you can watch as twin fish swim in unison through the wavy kelp or you can follow a solo swimmer into the rocks. Before I feel asleep, I thought about “too muchness,” a convo I had on the deck of The Ruby, in the 20 minutes I had between a meeting and home.
For some people you’re too much, I thought to myself and they don’t want to go there and that is OK. And I went there alone and sunk deep down into the pillows and didn’t jump when someone walked by - didn’t think it was a small human who might pounce on my body or an orange cat who might meow for some food or a regular sized adult who was mad about my dishes and my general mess, for the millionth time. In short, I took a big nap.
When I woke up I still felt tired. I blow dried my hair and rocked in the chair by the very loud fan and sat under these lights, these gorgeous flower shaped lights with white cloud-like petals and soft colored centers and I peeked into the massage room with a still open door and saw a window of glass stained turquoise for both of the panes. The photos on the wall were blown up water droplets; four large prints lined up next to each other of concentric circles, like nipples, like sound. A Hello Kitty clock ticked, with its gold second hand, around colorful three-dimensional plastic pansies. The pink sparkly other hands, one short and one long, read 12:00. It struck me as strange that I had never noticed these details before.
My greatest success of this artist’s date was to be four hours phone-free: this insane box that’s like my heart now, some important organ I can’t do without, beating with an irregularity that the rest of my body has become accustomed to.
My toenail paint was still chipped, my legs were still hairy, there’s no end to this story of taking good care. But I’d had a few cups of tea; buckwheat in small paper cups, and the warm afternoon sun called me out of my lair.
There was a key on a stretchy looped bracelet to touch on the lock of a small locker closet with two hangers and box, where your shoes wait for your feet. Even there, there’s a little mirror inside, and an extra rack for hanging more clothes. I pulled on my dress; my backpack was heavy, I’m embarrassed about how little I’ve said. I hope that you like this noticing of things, I hope it’s enough. But also not too much.