Yesterday, I took my somewhat ill gotten gains home and intended to merely dust them; instead, I remembered that I had 2 cans of flat black spray paint, not to *ahem* mention years of experience working in a frame shop, to say nothing of the fact that I LOVE doing shit with my hands. Plus, it's mid-July and there ain't shit on TV.
Earlier I mentioned that I "acquired" objects for this show - admirable, you might (or not) say. That was the primary reason. But once these bags hit the floor, any sense of altruism went out the window - yeah, I can and will use this stuff for this show, but as soon as it's over, I can frame up WAY cooler shit for my own place, er, reasons.
When my Roommate came home last night she was shocked - in a good way - to find our kitchen table strewn with paint, cardboard, tape, staples, screws, tools; just that I was doing something with my hands. I didn't need or seek her approval, I was oblivious to the world around me for hours. Not a new feeling, but one that I haven't sought or received in seemingly ages.
So, yeah. Writing does too.