You're an artist.

you're an artist, you don't need this shit
let 'em look, let 'em look at your tits
let 'em look, let 'em look at your tits
you're an artist, you don't need this shit
you only wanna buy some lipstick

you're an artist, you don't want a real job
you're the one in a million singled out in the mob
you're the exception, the special case
they haven't found your hiding place

they can try to box you, misidentify you
if they can give tattooes,
get everybody mechanically humming the same tunes

i like your lipstick
i like your lipstick
i like your lipstick
i like your lipstick yeah

you're an artist you don't need this shit
you're an artist you don't need this shit

- morphine

Lessons from a Dining Chair

I realised today that the ugly, functional furniture you find in offices – the sort of thing that turns your stomach and instantly depresses you – has its purpose.

Don't get me wrong. I have not defected to the "ergonomics beats aesthetics any day!" camp. But my back is distractingly stiff both from trying to work on my laptop from every portable chair in the house (albeit each at a different time), and from repeatedly manouvering said chairs into my newly set-up home office/studio.

My dogs have lain recklessly on the hard floor, shaking their heads at each of my countless Goldilocks moments: Too high! Too low! Too hard! Too soft! Too reclined! Too upright! And (ouch), Too heavy!

And I, reduced to a blob of bad posture and premature aches and pains, have perched, in sweaty resignation, on my husband's exercise ball, wondering all the while how I got to this (wobbly) stage.

Dare I say it? Today, during fleeting moments of utter weakness (mostly induced by rolling grandly off the large rubber ball headlong into my bookshelves), I have – momentarily, only momentarily! – been haunted by thoughts of the damned blue chair I left behind with that old day-job.

Yes, thoughts of it,: Its ungodly, unbreathable, ridiculously synthetic (as fake as the plastic plants I used to vent my frustrations – and cold tea – on) fabric; its stupid skitterish wheels; its sticky-outty feet that have scratched the toes of every pair of leather pumps I own, have crossed my mind, inspiring – I sheepishly admit – tiny gusts of something akin to wistful nostalgia.



Tch. And I thought it was just the free stationery I'd miss.

This isn't what I signed up for.

This must be the curse of the self-employed. An amber light is flashing somewhere in my head, but I can't see it properly: It's in a blind spot.

I know the spiel: I'm supposed to be in control of the work I take on – how much, how often, how long to spend on it. Instead, I end up taking on everything people call me with, work desperately to meet their deadlines, and work longer hours than before without shifting from my desk.

I'm everybody's girl now.

Clients call to throw tantrums; I pacify them. Editors shorten deadlines; I bend over backwards to deliver. Clients ignore contracts, try to get more work out of you. Cheques never arrive in the mail – if only because you're too busy to remember to send your bills. Even if it's boring work, dry work, hard work, if the person on the phone is more persuasive or agressive than I, I end up saddled with it.

The ability to write has never been such a curse.

And the guilt, the guilt for turning down the duds I do turn down. The measly jobs involving a ton of work and a tenth of what they should pay. The ones I wouldn't do for a million bucks. There are starving freelancers out there, I tell myself sternly, like a reprise of those days when you were little and children in Africa were starving. Swallow the morsel, down the food, clean your plate – even if you can't eat a bite more. Others out there aren't so lucky.

And, you need the money, you aren't a happy-go-lucky swingin' single youngster anymore. There's bills to be paid, the mortgage, the mortgage. Who knows when the next job will come? You haven't hardly enough in the bank. You haven't even gotten round to setting up insurance. Who'll take care of you when you're old?

Ah, freelancing. It's the life.

Alone again, naturally.

The first thing you learn about the solo life, is that it's, well, solo.

When you work from home, there's no-one to grab mid-afternoon to make a quick run to the cafeteria with for a couple of curry-puffs and a coffee. When a client's frustrating you, there's no-one to yell over your partition at about how stupid they, and your job, are.

No-one mumbles "Good morning" half-asleep as they pass by your home office. Nobody asks to borrow your stapler.

A few months after leaving your job, you find yourself falling off people's radars. You no longer get the latest gossip. Your email address even starts fading off those few banal-chain-mail-mass-joke-shite-email-lists. You're secretly pleased, but at the same time, a little alarmed by your own non-existence.

But despite that you're getting disturbingly used to conversing with yourself, and have devised sneaky motivational self-talk methods to keep yourself awake in the post-lunch hours, life's strangely better.

You get everything done alot faster. And you can play whatever music you like, as loud as you like. You can even work with the TV on.

You take more breaks. You relish not having to share a printer. You recklessly leave your desk as messy as you please, without wondering if your "lack of self-discipline" will show up on this year's performance appraisal.

You stick half-nude pictures all over your wall, and you don't offend the office nun, because, haha, there are none.

You get used to smirking at your own jokes.

You don't have to share your stash of office snacks with anyone. You don't get caught up in mindless, time-wasting coversation over the water-cooler about so-and-so's daughter's exam results, or so-and-other-so's new car. Because, ta-da, there is no watercooler.

You put your feet up on your desk. Chew all the pens you need to when you're having a good think, without anyone muttering about your upbringing. Take off-days when you're sick, or when you're sick of work. You don't worry about colleagues eavesdropping on your phonecalls.

Life's all-around better, really.

Now, if only the taste of solitude in your mouth weren't so foul.

The light is licking me

From now on, life is my travelling party. I've ditched the conventional – the safe and restrictive – to strike out on my own, accompanied by a few true friends, two good dogs and whatever smarts I have.

My bed will be the first tree I pass after my feet have turned weary from dancing.

I will wake in the mornings with the sun, with the light licking my face.

When my feet itch along the way, I'll stop to take off my shoes and scratch for as long as I please. No squirming uncomfortably in shoes. And if I'm tired, or thirsty, I'll jolly well rest or take a detour. If I pass a party, I'll pause to join in.

And the rest of the time, I'll leap, twirl and prance my way, with joy in my feet.

Watch me.