Petting Zoo

After visiting daddy at the heart hospital, I took my easel to the "other hospital". This time, when I went through the iron gate, I noticed a sign "Authorized Personell Only". I thought that if they really meant that they wouldn't leave it unlocked. Besides, if the door was all the way open I wouldn't notice the sign. It was possible, like yesterday, that I could accidentally come in. So why should I be punished for noticing? This would probably be my only chance to paint in an insane asylum. I honestly couldn't stand the thought of not painting there.

I got about fifty steps inside and a white truck with "Security" on it was rolling up the street. I just kept walking like I knew what I was doing. I wondered what they thought of the canvas and the wooden chest. Maybe they'd think I was a doctor with a briefcase. What was weird is that I felt like I had some right to be there as "an artist". The painting *had* to be done.

The truck passed and I noticed a used white latex glove along the sidewalk. I thought, "Yeah. I'm in. This is cool." I decided that the truck didn't stop because they probably just didn't care. I looked like either a visitor or some straggler taking a shortcut.

I decided to paint at this fountain. It was a rusty thing. It was enclosed in a circle of limestone. A round aqua-yellow pool was around that. More limestone and couple broken benches around that. The trees were full-on winter with jutty twisted branches.

About a quarter way into the painting, this suburban pulled up, and a lady hopped out. In broken English she said, "Yes. I am Malaysian. I am from Malaysia. Can I have picture?!?"

About half-way into the painting, a doctor looking guy appeared. He told me that he'd come back in a couple hours to check my progress. That *really* screwed me *all* up. For the next three hours I was concerned about him coming back.

At about three-quarters, I heard a violent moaning yelling episode. That really sobered me. No joke, people are tormented. I am a wuss who loses sleep.

Between three-quarters and seven-eighths, I heard an elderly black woman's voice, "I just *knoooow* that's something pretty." She looked at the painting and said, "Now just what is it that attracts artists to water?" I told her I didn't know. She asked me, "How much would a painting like that run ya?" I told her I didn't really sell them. It was just for fun. She said, "Well now, that is a nice hobby. I'll let you get back to your concentrating."

I began to hack the painting. At about seven-eighths, I took the pool out. This made the fountain look like a big statue. It was well done. Alone, it looked good. But it was just too big. It said, "Hey! I am a big fat statue which people sit around and look at." I went back and sat for a few minutes, and then strode up to the painting and scraped off the fountain. It was the central piece. I took the fountain out. I am studying trees, and there was no room for the fountain and the trees. Then I took out a bench. I moved it right. Then I added the bench I was sitting on at the base of the painting. All the time waiting for the tree. But I liked the path in front of the bench. The tree would just be stuck there. In the end, I didn't add a tree. The center piece became the bench at the bottom. The bench's partner looks a bit off kilter, as if it can't decide whether it should walk off or stand or fall over.

I had already scraped my palette two times because it was littered with paint. I had tubes open on the ground. My face was getting sunburned. All along I was adjusting my easel to keep it out of the sun.

That was it. My face was burning. So then I moved my easel to a tree where I could be in the shade. I took two or three tubes of paint. Now I had two places to run back and forth between.

I was also running out of paper towels, some of which had heavy blobs of scraped portions of the painting, not to mention entire palette cleanings. I was stuffing them in my backpack.

My face was burning. I wondered if I had accidentally rubbed paint on my face. I looked at my jeans. They had lots of paint on them. So I started rubbing my face with my shirt. Dang it. Now I knew that freaking doctor accountant-like guy was going to show up. If I had paint on my face... and the painting looked like some nut-case had scribbled.

I knew what he was going to think. He was going to think I was a wannabe Van Gogh. But with my face all sunburned or with paint all over it... and my jeans... and the scribbled freak job... he would probably just think I was stupid. That'd be the worst. He would think I was stupid. Then I thought, "Maybe I am stupid."

Between seven-eighths and eight-eighths I stood in front of the painting and thought, "Dang. Man, just clean up."

My last visitor was some kid, on a bicycle, with a black death metal looking shirt. He asked a bit shyly, "Soo, uhhh, where do I go to visit someone here?" I said, "I don't work here." (Later I saw the same kid at the Walgreens).

I cleaned up and left. When I got back around people on the trail, I was playing a game where I would try and point the painting towards the least likely angle that it and I could be noticed.

But now, somehow, I really like the painting.