Since Garbanzo Gallery closed I don't feel like myself. It was my home away from home. Artists, writers and intellectuals would gather in the back room to discuss culture in all its aspects. Jacqueline, the owner, was kind enough to exhibit my fragile tapioca sculptures.
But in this economy, sales were slow and she had trouble making the rent. Still, we were shocked when the sign went up indicating the place was closing. Now I have lost touch with the others. Rafael, a poet, vows he will find us another space. I wander the streets, not feeling like myself, disconnected in a blue collar, factory dominated town. I am unable to work, to create. My center is unraveling. It's as though body parts are disengaging. I stumble up stairs, my legs belonging to someone else.
Perhaps I need to move on socially and creatively. There is a Meet Up Bowling team I may join. And I'm seriously considering switching my material from tapioca to jello sculpture. Maybe I can exhibit in pastry shops. I see an artistic void I am capable of filling.
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