of course I am an ARTIST  she screamed

and leapt from the couch

flailing her arms  and dancing into the wall   throwing plates and breaking glass

yelling profanities at the top of her lungs,  dropping her pants   and then her panties

she ran to the drawer  frantic  papers flew  strewn across the desk top

markers fell    post its everywhere (they help her remember)

“Aha! I’ll show you Art”  and she started tossing nude photos of herself   hidden at the bottom of the drawer

in the back corner of her mind

black and whites    four generations worth

“I’ve been taking them my whole lives!   So don’t you talk to me about art!

You wouldn’t know good art if it slapped you in the face,

let alone kissed you ‘good morning’ each day,

washed your clothes,

made your coffee,

laughed at your jokes,

told your stories,

played by your rules in the majority reality frame.

No, sir. Don’t talk to me about Art.

You don’t know shit about Art.”

then she  calmly sat back down  at the very corner of the couch

(so as not to take up more space then she needed)

she allowed her shoulders to slouch      smiled her mischievous smile

and without offering a slight pause to honor

or at least acknowledge

the transition of mood from volatile creativity to radiating inner peace

she apologized for the outburst    politely   and went about her business


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