I’m sitting on my chaise in the dark, Macbook Pro in lap, curtains open to the snow outside. Every now and then, the wind catches a loose patch of snow, and it sounds like sand dragging along the ground outside. If you close your eyes, it’s like you’re sitting on a beach at low-tide under a night sky.

I haven’t done this in a while.

The show is over. There’s supposed to be one more interview next week, but at least I can breathe now. I’ve finally had time to clean the house, which is probably why I feel comfortable enough to write.

There are icons for movies on my desktop, ones I’ve started watching but haven’t finished, because I haven’t been able to emotionally invest in them. I did, however, get a chance to watch Cidade de Deus which is the best movie I’ve seen in months, and Constantine, purely for the Tilda-Swinton-as-angel factor.

I realized that I like girls who look like boys. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m gay.

On a sticky, I seem to have written “a small pair of skis”. I don’t remember doing this, or what for. There’s also a phone number there with no name. I want to call the number to find out who it is, but I’d just hang up if someone answered and that’d be rude.

I should call Dan. I should reorganize my photos for appropriate backup. I should be practicing Tai Chi. I should be having more fun. I should be filling out my thought record worksheets.

But right now, I should really be in bed.

There’s a little article in The Metro today about the gallery. In the picture, around the harpist, is part of my Fruit and Body series. I’ve decided to make it a limited edition print of 100 each at 18"×12". So far I’ve sold four, with two potentials.

It’s the last day of the exhibit. I’ll be there again tonight because another paper wants some pictures of the artists, and so I can meet with any guests, including one of my buyers. If you stop by, don’t forget to sign the guestbook!

My therapist is still getting to know me. Now I have books to read and worksheets to fill out. It’s somewhat strange; I’ve been putting myself through self-help for years, but I’ve never traced it so far back to my childhood. I don’t like to blame my parents because I see how Darren and Pat have survived far “worse” but it’s getting more and more obvious that there’s trauma in my childhood that still affects me to this day.

• Apparently, I’m moderately depressed, and “moderate” is not normal.
• We’ve figured out that my unassertiveness is the result of conflict avoidance. Even if I practice a situation in my head where I say something that may bring up conflict, I often can’t follow through. I feel helpless to fix this, and this leads to a self-defeating attitude.
  • This stems from my childhood. I’ve almost never argued with my parents (there were two times in my life I felt strongly enough to stand up against them, both ending in me submitting because there was no reasoning with them). I’ve always felt like I wouldn’t be loved unless I got good grades and did everything I was told. In other words, it was an extremely conditional love.
  • This means I care about what people think of me, and I define or evaluate my self-worth through them. Knowing this pisses me off because philosophically and pragmatically I don’t agree, but can’t do anything about it.
• Every time I’ve been in therapy, I’ve cried at least once. This happens whenever I bring up specific aspects of my relationship with my parents.
• Hearing my therapist say, “Wow, that’s bad” brings me a comforting validation to what I feel.
• Aside from being slightly verbose, my therapist is great. He’s a non-judgmental, ethical, open-minded intellectual. He’s also a good listener.

If a woman sleeps alone, it puts a shame on all men. God has a very big heart but there is one sin he will not forgive: if a woman calls a man to her bed and he will not go.

—Zorba the Greek

There exists a spot on every woman that needs to be kissed.

It can be as innocuous as the curl of the lip, the web of the hand, or a mark on a landscape of skin.

It’s the responsibility of a man to find this spot. Not as a service to the woman — sometimes the woman isn’t even aware of such a spot — but as a service to the creator of such things.

I feel utterly intoxicated.

With a hammer and a ladder, we hung my pictures tonight, carefully deciding where to place each one to balance the colours, the orientations, the shapes, and the concepts.

Amongst the wine and the wood, the kids and the colours, we stopped to admire the art in the house. Adrienne dropped by to share her latest graphic poems with us, along with her alcoholic findings. “From The Desk Of” Penelope was written that day, dense and deep, full of details taken for granted. The words must write themselves, I thought.

Misun and I seem to share a kinship through our appreciation of expression, something I’ve never had with my friends. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but I’ve always felt like they can’t relate to me when it comes to emotions or creativity. As I seem to be the creative brother she’s always wanted, and she seems to be the supportive sister I’ve always needed, we agreed to be adopted siblings.

In a recent interview, Frédéric said, in his ebullient Parisian accent, that one of the reasons he wanted to open the Salon is to promote dialogue and interaction. Perhaps it’s this hunger for dialogue that connects us. He also mentioned to me he was stressed out about being interviewed; being put on the spot made him freeze up. I told him I had the same problem with pretty girls. “You’re affected by beauty”, he said, something I knew, but not something that everyone understands.

I left, feeling like I was a part of something wonderful, something greater than myself.