Opening night is only less than a hand of days away. Perhaps that doesn’t make sense. But I have given up on trying to make sense. Whatever you start with, it always ends up being so much less. A character named Richard said that. From “ The Hours”, yes. I am waiting for the boiled water to cool. I have hives all over my body. I have to take my medication but I’ve run out of mineral water. Thus the boiling. So I have hives. They say it’s because I’m stressing too much about the show. Immature. Masturbatory . Waste of paint. What the hell is he doing? But worst of all. Zero sales. I need to give back to the hands that rocked the cradle. That is my first concern. Never mind if it didn’t come out in the papers or if I end up being the only to have had fun experiencing my so-called creative output. I need to let them know. Perhaps they were right. Stress. About the show. Yes. Thus these red archipelagos on my skin. When most things are done, the question resurfaces. What am I doing?Perhaps these red bumps are the questions I’ve been shushing all this time.So now I am trying to suss myself out. I have almost completely detached myself from office-work, papers, official documents- this entire get a job-stay there-retire-then-you-can-live-your-life reality- to inhale life without the smoke from self-inflicted infernos. I have subsisted on painting sales, magazine honoraria, and odd gigs here and there like judging incredibly wasteful and idiotic pageants- Whatever are these for children? Go plant trees. Hug your mothers. Read. Go home. Feed your dog. Get struck by lightning. Yes. That. For real. Just now. The floor actually shook from the thunder. My feet even shook with it. They are tired. Hives are on them too. Maybe they need a holiday. Maybe I need a holiday. It’s seems I have walked a long way. Alone. I no longer know which way is back. To be honest, I do not want to know. I do not want to go back. Wherever that is. But I do know I have to keep walking and perhaps I might know where to go.