The tube…came…back.


They politely circled the “TO” address this time, but evidentally that was the extent of their involvement–actually delivering it to said address is way beyond the scope of the US postal service.

I have double and triple checked, and there is nothing that should render it undeliverable–it’s clear, legible, and complete. They just keep sending it to the “From” address. Despite the big label saying “FROM” in all caps. And the handy circling.

If this wasn’t something that I’d, y’know, been paid for and all, I’d write “Return to Sender” on it in the spirit of experimentation and see if it got home that way. But no–somewhere, a nice man is waiting for his art, and thus, I must go to the post office tomorrow and scream a lot.

Oy…I gotta stop playing video games so intensively that I dream in game interface. When you’re playing Diablo, it’s one thing–orthographic view dreams are kinda amusing–but when you’re playing Voodoo Vince and flinging yourself through jumping puzzles all day, it is not exactly restful.

Yesterday I was idily noodling around the sketchbook folder on my hard drive, and kicked up a few roughs that I think have real potential for paintings. The naked mole rat shaman summoning the Great Turnip Spirit was one I’d really liked at the time, but I’d completely forgotten the mythic hippo. It’s along the same lines as Sir Bunny vs. the Wockwurm–big monster, open jaws, flapping tongue, small hero. I’m torn–I like the layout, it appeals to me, I was really proud of how the Wockwurm piece came out, but in a way I feel a little odd doing a painting so similiar to something I’ve already done. Particularly because the Wockwurm’ll be a tough act to follow! What if it isn’t as good?

The answer, of course, is always “Well, what if it isn’t?” but while I know that perfectly well, I–well, probably most artists, actually–never quite shake the feeling that there is a Greek chorus somewhere just watching my art, and if I revisit a composition or an idea and fail to wreak significant improvement upon it, they’ll start up in multi-voiced antiphony and call me on it. And then the Erinyes will get involved, there’ll be a trial subtitled in Latin, Athena will show up and want to know what the hell I was thinking naming my cat, and I’ll be wandering around with a nametag that says “Orestes” trying to explain that no, really, I felt Clytemnestra was largely justified with the bit with the axe, and didn’t see any need to go on from there.

The benefit of a classical education–you may never get a job, but you can cast your neuroses in all kinds of exciting new ways.

I may go with it anyway. Of course, I still don’t know what the little figure will be, or what it’ll be doing, or whether the hippo will be a hippocorn (as it is now) with an absurd little horn in the middle of the forehead, or if I’ll go all out on the cheezy pun front and make the minor adjustments to finally paint a hippogriff. And now that I’ve actually thought about it, I’ll probably just get paralyzed and dump it until the next time I forget about it completely and stumble over it again.

The artist version of spring cleaning–you don’t throw anything out except ideas. And then you repent and gather them all back up again, and squirrel them away, and occasionally go out and get even more ideas to keep the old ones company. And yet, you somehow feel better for it all.

Oh frabjous day!

The first teeny green shoot from a bulb I planted has nosed through the soil of the planter. It’s alive! MUHAHAHAHAH!

This may seem like a somewhat out of proportion amount of joy for the predictable emergence of what is either a grape hyacinth or a freesia, but you gotta understand, I’ve been living in apartments since I was seventeen, a few months shy of a decade now, and for nine of those years, I didn’t even have a patio. So this is, quite literally, the first plant that I didn’t buy pre-established at a nursery in my adult life.

And it’s aliiiiiiive!

Yesterday, I mailed a print. It was in a tube. The tube had two pre-printed labels on it, clearly labelled “To” and “From.” Because I have the brains the good lord gave an eggplant, I carefully wrote my address in “From” and the recipient’s address in “To.” I took it down to the UPS store, paid the postage, and off it went.

All right, you can all see where this is going.

Today, I open the mailbox and discover that, yup, I’ve recieved a shiny tube labelled in a very familiar handwriting. I have a sneaking suspicion that if I opened it up, I would find a very familiar print, too.

I double checked four or five times. Yup, I labelled it correctly all right. To, From, basic prepositions, same as I learned in school.

Tomorrow I will put it in the mailbox with a nice note saying “Please deliver to the “TO” address, not the “FROM” address. We’ll see if that works…

Workin’ on paintings today…page 80 of Digger got done yesterday, a number that staggers me completely. Today, did the layouts and about half of page 81. I have two paintings sort’ve in the works. I think I’ve finally hit a method for the mixed media originals that works–I do a sketch on the computer, I transfer it to paper in a crude and squiggly fashion with my trusty projector.

Then I go to a coffee shop and spend a few hours refining it while chatting with my fellow hominids.

Not only does this get me out of the house, it actually keeps me from rushing the sketch to get on to painting. Since I’m a lot better at painting than drawing, and enjoy it more, this is a good thing. Now I just gotta lay paint on the pesky things…

Sort’ve a noodling around day–did some work on a Digger page, did some work on my next painting (which features a snail) and updated my webpage. Prints of the Slug Totem are now available!

My energy seems to be cyclical–some days, I can work straight through with great enthusiasm, and some days, like today, I long for a nap. I dunno if it’s time of the month or phase of the moon or quality of the light or what…

If you’re a sci-fi geek with political opinions who reads stuff on LJ, the odds are probably better than even that you’ve stumbled over the Orson Scott Card thing about gay marriage, which I found dreadfully misguided, even as a straight chick. Fine and good, free country, he gets to say these things, I get to complain about them, such is life. I would, however, like to remind everyone not to condemn the entire Mormon church merely because of Card.

God, I never thought I’d ever say THAT.

This isn’t about the gay marriage thing, however. I’m for it, I think the government ought to have no say in the sex lives of consenting adults, etc, etc, can I get a hallelujah from the choir?

This is about what I’ve taken to calling the Sim Effect.
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There was a time when I felt bad for telemarketers. It’s a crappy job, and you generally only do it out of desperation–I can’t imagine that there are people out there who aspired, from their cradle, to be a telemarketer.

Since the advent of the do-not-call registry, however, and my signing up for it, my goodwill has vanished. (The industry’s kicking and screaming and attempts to use free speech laws to cover their desire to sell me siding helped.) I have asked them politely to cease and desist. They haven’t. They are now getting paid to bother me when I have asked them not to. And so, I no longer think sympathetically of people doing a crappy job, I think of someone who is accepting money to Aggravate Me Against My Will. I don’t care that they’re not getting paid well, or that they need the money. Hit men don’t get paid nearly enough and undoubtedly need the money too, but I am not obligated to be polite when they are kneecapping me. If you take money to bother people, you’re taking money to bother people, and you should expect them to react. If you are paid to blow a kazoo in the ear of a sleeping wolverine, it is ultimately not the wolverine’s fault that you will require the services of a surgeon, a therapist, and a proctocologist with very long tongs afterwards.

So pretty much as soon as more than three words are out of their mouth, and I have determined it’s a form call, I say “I don’t want any.”

If they say “Okay,” and hang up, we’re all good. I bear them only a small amount of ill will. But god help them if they continue. I can fit an adverb seven or eight times in a sentence, all of them beginning with “F.”

Since we moved, I’ve been getting two or three calls a day for “Mrs. Jackson,” who obviously had the number before us. When I say “Wrong number,” they move on to “Are you the lady of the house?” which is not so much waving a red flag before the bull as using the red flag to staple the bull’s eyelids open. I don’t really like being called “lady” at the best of times–at 8 AM, by a telemarketer who got a wrong number but refuses to let go a breathing body on the other end of the line, death is too good for them.

An acquaintence of mine swore up and down that the best way to get rid of ’em was, after the spiel, to say “So…what’re you wearing?” but it loses some of the effect when you’re female, alas.

And that’s my gripe for the day. Damnit.