paintingstudio

so she is sitting in the painting studio, while this siren is deafening her, wait, it stopped, it is ten oh nine in the morning, monday, april fourish, all her lockerstuff is lying behind her on the black and white checkered sofa, her lock is in her purse, she can put her stuff in her car, that's it for her in this art school, @ least for this semester, she dropped her classes, no homework is due, which kind of pisses her off, no final essays, no final presentations, no exams, it is utterly weird and surreal, she could put her stuff in the grad show or she can do it next year, she only needs one more course to graduate, somehow she does not really understand the rules and regulations of this place and the funny thing is that no one seems to understand them, every time she asks she gets totally conflicting info, basically 180 degrees apart, which kind of lets her to the conclusion that she should just do her own thing, her work resides in cyberspace anyways, somewhere in the clouds, how so very artistic, i am too dumb to produce something tangible, but, hey. it resides in outer space, in my mind- maybe that can pass for being creative, if nothing else works- and @ this time nothing else seems to work- she watches the crowd walking by outside of the painting studio and tries to wrap this up-should look @ the show in the brow