For the uninitiated, an arts residency is what God gives you to make up for the other 299 days of the year when being a writer or an artist is a complete pain in the a**. Depending on the residence, you get a room or a house and food or money for food and a studio and a great big reminder that you are up to Important Things in that studio. Or, you know, not - but it feels that way.
Jentel supplies a room that would shame most Bed and Breakfasts, a $100 a week stipend for food that other residents cook five days a week so it's a given that I eat better than at home, 1000 acres to hike within, two squee-dorable dogs to pet, a wonderful studio with a mini gas fireplace and a chair that leans back into practically a bed, and the fellowship of four artists and one other writer (my friend J.)
I loved it. The best part? I didn't even have to apply, I was awarded the residence because of my O. Henry Award in last year's O Henry Prize Collection. Thank you, God! Now could you do something about Obama getting elected?
In other news, while I was in Wyoming, Happa Boy (whom I started dating just days before leaving town) sent emails and phone messages to my non-working cell phone (we're in the mountains up there), plus a printed dinner invitation, among other awesomeness. When I got back, he made me seared tuna - and get this - remembered my love of frozen grapes for dessert. For reals. He remembered what I said in passing about frozen grapes and had them on hand - stunning non-male behavior. But I was not used to a man being so well, nice to me. And so I resisted his adorable inroads. This is a sad commentary on my previous relationships, particularly with S. Especially with S.
But there you have it, Beloved Readers, resistance is futile. I seem to have a *gasp* boyfriend. I know, who'd have thunk it? Certainly not me at this time last year - which just goes to show you that if you go to a big city and leave your house occasionally - you might meet someone.
The object of my affections - he sent me this picture at Jentel. See, nice. I feel guilty God is concentrating more on my happiness right now than say, global warming. I'm good, God. You can move on.
(By the way, I turned off comments due to a weird blip of them being saved half a dozen times. It seems to be resolved but if they disappear again, that's why.)
3 comments:
I think Happa Boy is less a result of God's intervention than your own foresight in getting the heck out of Santa Fe. I hope the frozen grapes were fed to you by hand. This all confirms my long-held dreams that the light in Santa Fe is great, but big cities rock.
Frozen grapes!
Take that S - you dirty so-and-so
I just HAPPENED to pop in over here and, to my delighted surprised, find that the kakas are once again not being fed. Don't ever go away like that again. Ever. (Unless you might miss your plane.)
And I can't believe you haven't yet regaled me with the story of Happa Boy providing you with frozen grapes! Bonus points if they were seedless.
Your friend J.
P.S. As a sort of tribute to the month we shared a shower, just tonight I bought very nice, non-Pantene shampoo--wait for it, wait for it--on eBay.
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