Same as it ever was

The problem, I think, is that I get very focused in the moment. I think this, because honestly, I don't think it's that I lack judgment in general.

Because, here's the thing.

You know how you wind up with clothing - like T shirts and boxers - from past relationships? And the ones from bad breakups you throw away immediately, thus banishing memories. But ones with no hard memories, you might stick in a drawer and forget about.

And then one evening maybe you are screen printing on the kitchen floor of your little apartment.

Since you don't really live there anymore, but what you are doing with it and where to live is in flux, you are sometimes there, but with very few clothing options. And having walked there from work, you are in a no-dyeing-or-any-other-permanently-staining-behavior outfit.

And so you are forced to cast about for clothes that don't matter. Which turns out to be a dingy old tank top. And a pair of really comfy, stretchy, white boxer briefs.

Not the kind that go far down your leg. The Calvin Klein kind that, on a guy, would sit high on his thigh. Sort of like a more attractive version of tighty-whities. Having girl thighs myself, they scoot up, and sit gently above the rounded top of them.

It's a good look.

And these are boy underwear. So there's a little pokey-outey place to put your penis. The one I don't have, but look like I do (albeit a rather inadequate one), while wearing them. It's just part of the penilely accomodating design. And it looks even more poked out because of all the extra room created by the scooting up the legs.

So the kind of dye I use for screening needs to be heat set. Which is relevant, I promise.

Once the fabric is dry, you spread it out on a layer of newspaper, place another layer on top, and wrap it up, long ways and then sideways - kind of like you'd roll a cinnamon roll, if that makes sense. And then tie it to hold it. You then steam it for 30 minutes, in a modified spaghetti pot kind of thing.

And when the 30 minutes are up, you need to take it out fast. You don't want to let the moisture from the steam in the paper affect your design.

When you open the paper, these enormous gusts of ammonia puff out. So you have to unwrap this big paper bundle while trying to hold your breath.

So on this particular day, there I am, yellow rubber gloves, tank, tighty-whities. In my small tiny place. Trying to not breathe while pulling out the fabric and gathering up what seems like an entire issue of steamed, ammonia-y newspaper.

Pulling, unwrapping, gathering, holding breath, blinking eyes. Arms full of paper, staggering breathlessly, trying not to drop paper on the floor, trying to keep the scarf from sticking to itself and from dragging while getting it to the bathroom to rinse it.

My front door is on the path from kitchen to bathroom. And as I pass it I have the sense that for the love of God, I simply cannot breath and I just need some air! Air! Please! Air!

And so I fling the door open wide - why, I do not know, as it only opens to a hallway - just in time to nearly hurl myself into the path of passing strangers.

New neighbors? Visitors? I do not know. I did not stick around to find out.

What I know is this: A more extreme vision of ludicrosity is hard to find.

Arms full of paper. Clad in nothing but undies, glasses, and yellow rubber gloves. Non-existent penis poking out the front of tighty-whities. Crazed look on my trying-not-to-inhale face.

What I most fervently hope and pray is if I ever run into these people again, I am carrying a screen, or something else obviously arty. So they can think, "crazy artist," rather than just, "crazy."