Uff-da....

Woke up yesterday already a day short....

To 547 new emails, some crazy-ass Bed Head, zero new 'likes', a handful of fresh bills and a bruise I can't account for, 20 missed calls, a houseful of needy pets, a big load of laundry, less receipts than I'd hoped after a decent Fest weekend, and a head full of doubts, questions, wonders, uncomfortable thoughts, and the fading memories of nightmares.

Don't forget, delayne; it's that time of year....

Time spent on my side of the Fest fence never fails to shake me up and deplete me. And a 3-day Fest weekend is almost more shake-up than I can handle. Much of it is spent in my head, wondering: Why did what I hear just piss me off? Why did what I see just make me envious? What is it about that person that makes me want to get away from them, get to know them better, BE them? I know that it is all meant to teach me something about myself as well as teach me tolerance and empathy and fill-in-the-blank. And I pay attention to the point of giving my own self a bleeding headache.

Take this year, for instance. What is it THIS year that makes Mayfaire visitors ignore my new stuff and all-of-a-sudden see my old stuff? What makes strangers want to shower me with advice -- "you should do this and this and this; you could be really good!" -- when I just told them that I've been doing this and this and this for nearly 30 years? (And seriously, 'you could be really good!' just makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a pencil.... It would hurt less than how those words really make me feel.)

Why is it that in a single day there I've been asked to repair flip-plops, bandage blisters, provide tampons or a place to breastfeed a child, redirect folks to the nearest ATM, and yet I've not sold a single piece of art?

What is it saying that my customer base is filled with folks who will pay $1,500 for a pair of boots they'll only wear one day a year, or drop a twenty into the hat of someone who can neither sing nor tune their instrument correctly, but will haggle with me over the price of a less-than-a-buck bookmark when I know they've been dropping ones in the cleavage of beer wenches all day??

Why do I seem to be seen but my work isn't? Is it what I've occasionally suspected -- that I have the kind of face that looks approachable and not likely to bite? Do I look like I might have the answer, stock the tampons, carry the Gatorade?

Why, after all this time, are there still acquaintances who ask me, "What is it exactly that you DO?" Does my shop not display what I do? Is there something I'm doing incorrectly? Something I'm not getting?

And why -- when I suddenly find myself neck deep in a crowd of what I like to think of as My Tribe -- do I feel so alone?............

Yep -- fave time of year. Still.

But it takes its toll.
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