Most artists don’t have a plan. I don’t have a plan. I have ideas. I have so many ideas that I wear my sunglasses in the train to protect myself from being too inspired. When I walk to work, I avoid looking up because I might suffer from what I call trigger overload. I usually cry myself to sleep and whimper: “This is just too much.” But it never really is– I have a shitload of ideas and feel blessed with my disorder: accute amnesia. It empties my head timely so I can stuff it with another shitload of ideas. And nobody gives a shit, right? And I’m fine with that -really. So why would people want to know about my plans?
They don’t. They’re bored sociopaths on the lurk for easy victims.
What they say:
“Hey! So what’s your plan?”
What they mean:
“The silence between you and me is unbearable: it reminds me of my vacant life. I’m twisted enough though to expect you to entertain me by telling me about your plan which I honestly don’t give two fucks about but I’m really good at pretending to give a fuck. Now dance monkey, dance.”
This is probably what I look like after hearing the ominous question:
Instead of caughing nervously and sipping from a glass that I finished a while ago, here’s what I’ll reply in the future- here’s my plan:
Make apple crumble and lick the hot oven door.
Chop onions with my eyes closed and cry
Snort red chili flakes and conclude that the green ones are better
Muffle your sound and cry over what might have been a healthy relationship
Eat bloomed orangettes and tell myself they’re a healthy snack
Make you scratch my vagina elaborately on the corner of Madison and 52nd
That’s it for now.
If you have any other ideas, feel free to add them to the list.
writing by Eva Depoorter
painting by Eva Depoorter (Evan Depoorter: pencil and oil on canvas)