I have a black eye. Now, anyone who's read any of the entries that began this diary many moons ago know that this black eye is more than likely to be as a result of something foolish and silly on my behalf. Strangely enough, when I'm at art, I'm quite normal. For the past 18 months I have fooled everyone into thinking I'm just like them, and falling over and tripping and bumping and knocking and scratching are simply not moves that my body knows how to make. It began slowly. This week, I started by spilling my bucket of water all over the floor under my easel. While I rushed around trying to move artwork off the floor and out of the tidal waves' way, I tripped over the stool. Annie, who sits next to me, said "Is that clean water? Can you pour some into my jar?" "Do you trust me?" I laughed, indicating to the floor. After a nod, I tried. And failed. The water was all over her desk, all over her. So you'd think today they might have looked at me a little more knowingly in terms of "Oh, right, NOW I see..." kind of way, rather than "Oh, the poor girl. Should we give her the domestic violence pamphlet now or later?" kind of way. Geeze, I mean, it's not like it was my fault I needed a glass of water in the middle of the night. And that I hadn't been bothered to put away my clothes before I'd gone to bed. It wasn't my fault that I tripped over said clothes in said darkness and ended up face first in the doorway. But don't you worry, I'm sure the doorway was just as injured as my face...
