At my MCC orientation, they asked us to name one thing that we'd packed. "Puffy paints," I said with a sheepish, but proud smile. I'd found a box of puffy paints that my mother, sister, and I had bought in 1992 to paint canvas shoes and sweatshirts. There was still even a bottle of glow-in-the-dark puffiness. I knew some inner truth about myself: that occasionally I just have a yearning to release the swirling pool of creativity that my liberal arts degree birthed in me. And i decided them a worthy extra 700 grams to be a part of my allotted sixty.
I recall a day that pool of creativity start ed bubbling--I was antsy, probably hadn't left the house all day, and some kids came knocking at our gate, wanting to draw. And I said, no, I'll paint you and I grabbed the tempra paints (puffy paint doesn't work very well on faces, though it's great to smear on foam), and spent the next three weeks, painting and then refusing to paint the face of every kid on my street, some several times.
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