Dun-da-dunnnnnnnn. Footprints. A monster for sure!
My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead. Women almost never become art monsters because art monsters only concern themselves with art, never mundane things. Nabokov didn’t even fold his own umbrella.(from Jenny Offill, Department of Speculation)
Here’s to the later-in-life art monster. The one who doesn’t even notice the lack of table space for a meal. Or the time of day/day of week/month of year. Take that back. It’s January. Even art monsters can figure that one out.
And here’s to my art monster friends, some of whom are married, who have children (or not), whose lives are more than full. Yet, monsters they are. I give them full honors, the title: a-r-t m-o-n-s-t-e-r!
And other friends whose life is an art form in itself. Let’s not be too narrow in our definition. And shall we allow more genders in too? Art monsters galore?
Art monsters galore.