Six Months of Doing Nothing

I mean nothing artistic, except straightening the pictures on the wall. This is a first. I don’t know the reason. I had big plans for my time in the country, writing, painting, a little gig somewhere….. ZIP. Days and weeks passed, I busied myself the way most people do who are not artists- home maintenance, various charitable projects, making money renting the lakehouse, paying bills, reading, walking, brushing the dog. Last week I finally called a psychotherapist – what the hell is going on? Why doesn’t my ego kick in and demand accolades? Is it depression? It seems different than that. Turning 60 and facing some facts that might discourage me from pursuing anything except picking out a gravestone? Booking a cruise? Maybe I’m busy “settling” for what I’ve been left with- a house in the boonies surrounded with either farmers or countrified suburbanites from Greenwich, Conn and Jersey. Safe theater, safe music, safe, safe, safe. Safe and steady. Safe and sad. Safe and solidified. Oh, let’s not blame Vermont. I think I’ll blame myself, as usual, and focus on where the hell my ego went? People ask me what I’m doing, I say, nothing. They don’t know what to make of it. Everybody is doing something, or planning something, or wrapping something up. What’s with doing nothing, and is it even possible? Why don’t I care anymore? The proposals and opportunities to be a diva and or oil painter and or writer and again trickling in, due to my attempt at connection with the outside world, like the Unitarian Church, the Democratic Party, Group Yoga. Everybody has an idea. Everybody, bubbling with a craving to offer help, has an idea, a plan, a person for me to meet. There are lead weights on my shoulders and a black bag over my head. Maybe I want to find out who I am as an aging woman, losing her looks, without any good press, without a fan club, without an audience, without a resume, just a fade out. For now. I have enough self knowledge to know that something will break here, at some point, and cleaning the toilets, dusting the shutters, organizing a drawer, will not suffice. But what the hell is this? Where did I go? Who was that I that went? Do I even like her?


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