Very few things as sweet as having a sustained burst of creative energy, working fast, and then collapsing into sleep. Particularly if you know that you won't have to set an alarm for the morning. I always try, when I get home from catering jobs, to do a little something before I crash--read, write, make something--so I don't dream about work. It only took one dream of carrying a tray stacked ceiling-high with tinkling glassware to realize the importance of a buffer zone.
Tonight that buffer was talking to PRobot and making yet more bottlecaps. I'd found these great books with lots of illustrations at the secondhand store, so I was happily punching out one-inch circle pictures of penguins and gnomes and so on while at his end of the line, PRobot was spraypainting a foam creature head. I think we were both working a little sloppily; he was getting paint on his hands and I was spraying bottlecaps and paper scraps everywhere. We were both breathing fumes. God help us if we continue to like each other and decide to spawn; at the very least our children might have two heads apiece or nicitating membranes over their eyes or gills or something.
Not that that would be all bad. I suspect he would like it and I know my folks wouldn't care, but I draw the line at having to cut holes in my child's garanimals to acommodate extra limbs.
But the thing that was interesting for me is that I am very sensitive to what happens to my creative impulses when I get involved with someone. I have finally made the connection that if I'm not at the very least drawing regularly when I'm dating someone, that is a Bad Sign. It's not that I've dated men who have actively squelched me (well...BowlCut did say some pretty thoughtless things, once upon a time) but for some reason, which could use some meditation, I get into someone and stop getting into my own stuff.
I don't perceive that as a potential problem here. I mean, who knows, this is still a very new thing. But it was cool doing projects 'together.'
Work was. I got to work a wine-tasting bar with one of our new people, a very cool, level-headed woman who has forgotten more about wine than I will ever know. We had six kinds of wine, a couple of them very nice considering how cheap they were. But everyone wanted orange juice. It was very strange.
Two more days here, and then Almeida and I head into the desert. Way too much needs to be done between now and then. I've given up on doing anything more elaborate for BM than making all these bottlecaps and finishing a couple of pairs of loose pants; as ArchitectX explained to me, focus first on water, sunblock, and clean underwear.
God, I'm even boring myself here. Must sleep.