Sleeping Rough – Bette Porter L Word
Somewhere near the border of the United States and Canada –
I’m not usually impetuous. I can see its value. I have watched its serendipity. I’m a bit more of a plotter. It’s what makes me a good art critic, because I can see starting points and artist’s inspiration. I can tune in and feel the artist’s overall strategy for the creation in front of me. Where they began and where they hoped to end up, and between there and where is the place the magic in art can happen.
Only with artists and intellectuals I know very well do I ever admit after rivers of wine and hours of heady debate that when the artist and the mind, and the brush and the color come together, Art can only be described sometimes as Magic.
Not God, or human skillful execution. Not dumb luck – although that does happen – but magic, and that word spoken leaves a room almost quiet for a moment because every artist there has felt ‘It’. And as artists we don’t really know what IT is so, the smartest ones of us just shut the fuck up, until the moment passes. A silent acknowledgement to – The Mystery.
But tonight I have been impetuous, and my rashness has drawn me far away from the hotel, and far down this dark road. My headlights pan across the tree trunks in the old forest as the rural country road winds south. I slide the rental car’s window down a crack.
Fresh air hits my face.
The wind is icy.
Behind me Angelica is strapped in her baby seat. She makes a sputtering baby cry. “Mama B and Angie had to take a little ride, sweetheart,” I console her, as if my not having the faintest clue helps either of us at all.
WalMart – North Washington State – Bette
Holy Mother of God! What the fuck is this place? It’s a hideously fluorescent main street with a drug store, an Optometrist’s eye wear shop, a bank, a McDonalds, and then we eventually get to the store’s interior.
Is this one of the places people lose their minds to get into on Black Fridays after Thanksgiving? I bet it is. But why?
I roll my cart with Angelica held in my arms past rows and aisles of things I cannot imagine ever wanting to possess. until I finally arrive at the WalMart Baby Section. Gods of Retail! Make me a better Mother! My eyes seize upon sippy cups, and a very sweet little blanket with blue sheep leaping over tiny rainbows. Hmm, WalMart is not so bad.