I'm afraid that I may have adopted (or inherited) more than a trace of Puritan ethics. Since the age of sixteen, while still a frivolous high school girl (dedicated to becoming the most popular girl in the school), I fell in love with a poet, a 'college man' whose depth and sophistication showed me the error of my ways. I didn't like or get the poetry he wrote and read but, longing to fit in with his crowd, decided to at least not mention how fervently I would have liked to have been a cheerleader.

I started wearing baggy black pants and a black Asian-inspired top. My father remarked that I looked like one of the Viet Cong, not a compliment from him. Naturally I welcomed it as proof of progress. I was discreetly trying to catch-up and there were so many books I hadn't read, records I hadn't listened to and movies I hadn't seen. I smoked non-filter cigarettes. Alas, I still couldn't focus on school work or make sense of the philosophy or poetry books or the Sibelius records I was trying to love but I looked serious. I looked dark. Heck, I looked like 'the enemy'!

Tonight, Mudd and I were talking about this blog. "Have fun with it!" she encouraged. The phrase caught me by surprise, but it didn't (as it once did) put an instant chill on my heart.

A number of years ago whenever my hair cutter Terry would try to encourage me about a new haircut: "Have fun with it!" Fun!? I'd smile, shrug and try to act light-hearted while thinking to myself, FUN!? Are you kidding?? I don't have time for fun! I don't have fun! I'm an artist.

How times have changed.