Blame it on the Frankencorn

Wherein I provide a litany of excuses for why I've not arted this week

Boy in corn field, King Street West 1914 William James PUBLIC DOMAN CANADA AND US WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

Hello, Friend,

Happy FriYAYMEH!

Today I must ‘art’, as in make art. I am unable to tarry with wordsmithing. I can no longer indulge my sads with snacky snacks or sippy sips or streaming shows or searching online for jobby jobs or possible new locations. I must confess that I’ve dillied and dallied to excess this week due to Mr. Potter being away and the processing of some less than stellar news. I must remain obtuse on that front, do forgive. I’m far less transparent than I was in ye olden days of the internets.

Have I ever mentioned that I was translucent when I was born? Meet Margot, the Visible Baby! My mother tried to give me back, but they insisted she keep me.

“Egads! What is this baby?!”

“Please take her home and swaddle her, ma’am. She is disturbing the other babies.”

“Are you sure she’s mine?”

“Yes. We’re certain.”

Audible sighs and sympathetic nods.

I provide no less of a conundrum as an adult.

To add to the heady mix of reasons why I’ve not arted, sleep has eluded me all week. Air quality alerts…six restless dogs…a crowded and uncomfortable couch…late night doom scrolling…

…the escalating autocratic creep…yadda, yadda, yadda.

There is a dense wall of Frankencorn pressing against our fenced yard that has grown so tall it now reaches the height of our second story deck. It is oppressive, menacing even.

I do not like this corn.

I do not like it even a little bit.

This corn is unnatural and unholy. It doesn’t even need children to elicit fear.

So many excuses, so much corn.

At some point, if one is to assume the mantle of artist, one must ‘art.’

Therefore, I must away.

I’ll update you Monday on my progress.

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