Monday, January 16, 2006

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A gallery approached me about representing my work in a non-exclusive manner; the situation isn't set. One guy liked my work and the whole group has to believe they can sell it. But the whole group has to agree it will sell to their customers. I hope it goes over; I sent jpg. samples and they'll get back to me. They're in Barcelona and London; I like that. I don't think Center City Philly is a good market for my work; I don't understand why not but it sold in the artsy upper-middle class area.
All this makes me literally sick. Since I got the email from the gallery I've felt anxious, ill. I don't think coming off Lamicdal matters except that my hair isn't falling out so quickly. It's the gallery stuff. I'm really a terrific scaredy-cat; everything frightens me. I just want to hide out, see no one and go nowhere. Except to my kids and close friends and maybe a little shopping. When I worked, I think I just forced myself to get up, go, and face people with whom I felt totally ill at ease. I don't want to deal with anything. And no amount of medications will make all this palatable.
Just the gallery might be acceptable, but for me every event is a threat. Is the kitten sick? Is my autonomic system out of whack? Will I die sooner than I think? Will I die of a stroke? Will I be able to take care of myself when I get older? Will Harry die? Would I be able to care for myself then? Would my son take care of my bills and stuff? Am I happy? Am I really psychic or am I neurotic? Should I have more friends? Am I normal? Why can't I get along with regular people better? Why am I stiff? Will I go bald? Can I lose weight? Will I stay fat? Am I ugly? All those are not really questions; for me, they're confirmations. Stupid, ugly, stiff, fat, untalented, unhappy, neurotic and narcissistic. And presenting a good amount of reason to be afraid.



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