Three am is my favorite time to throw up in the bathroom sink. Last night, I wanted to stop thinking about all the things I intended to do and focus on the feeling of nothing. It defines my life, the nothing, trying to be in it or escape it. I doom scroll to sleep. When I wake up, I’m exhausted and full of creative energy. I start working right away. I have to tear myself away to make coffee. My mouth still tastes like puke despite brushing my teeth.
I go back to my studio and start working again. I’m making a mess and doing nothing. I’m planning to go to a No Kings Protest today, but I’m not sure what time it starts, and figuring it out is impossible. I’m so tired. I start working on my website, which is easier than leaving the house to fight fascism, and I need to get it done. I’ve already made new business cards to give out at the show I’m in. The opening is tonight.
I take a nap and then a cold shower. I put on my artist mask, green button-down, jeans, and Doc Martens. It’s going to be too hot to wear it, but I feel safe, more like the part of me that makes art.
Driving to the gallery, I’m tired, I’m bored. I don’t want to be in the car. I get to the opening too late and way too early. The opening starts at 4 pm. I’m there at 4:05 pm. Fuck me. I walk in and try to find my piece. I don’t see it or any other work. It’s wine time. I walk over to the two women serving wine. I stumble over my words and ask for a bottle of wine instead of a glass. We laugh. I cringe and hate myself a little bit. There is cheese pizza. I love cheese pizza. I get a square and then fumble with my wine, pizza, and napkin. I figure out how to get the pizza in my mouth and the wine stays in my glass. Success, I can go home.
I walk up the stairs instead. I find my work. I remember it being better. I start looking at the other work there. There’s a lot of good work. There’s a really attractive woman. I consume it all. My piece hangs alone on a small wall; it goes past the edge of the wall. The way it’s hung is me. Too large for the space and alone.
I float through the show, trying to see the work. Trying to be the artist. I talk with some people, trying to perform me. Trying my best not to be me. And then a person I know, who might know me, touches my shoulder and says my name. Everything is better. I don’t say her name. It’s Michiyo. I’m scared that I will say it wrong. She is joy and all smiles. We talk about art and then go to her studio space to look at her new work. The piece I wanted the first time is still there. It’s a painting of a fish on a blue background with “Hi” in big red letters. The fish seems awkward and unsure, but shouts Hi anyway. I am the fish.