So I’m at MOMA in San Francisco on an “Artist’s date, to reconnect

with my creativity” to use Julia Cameron terminology from her book

‘The Artist’s Way’. Having paid the $25 museum entrance fee, but not

the extra amount required for the current Magritte show on the 5th
floor, my first stop is in the free section where I want to look again at

the small oil paintings by Hung Liu. At this point I’m aware that I don’t

feel well which is inconvenient because I intend to spend the day here.
I’ve wandered into the room of French impressionism which is still in

the free section. Suddenly I’m aware my nausea is increasing. I have

hot flushes and tingling around my mouth. I need to find a
restroom. It’s bright red. Red floors, red doors, red walls, red ceiling

and red lighting. I’m on my knees in a bright red cubicle throwing up

into thankfully  a white porcelain toilet. I’m in a damp sweat. There is

a man throwing up in the next cubicle. What are the odds?

My vomiting stops. I leave the cubicle, wash my hands and wish I could

clean my teeth. Immediately I’m back in a cubicle vomiting  again,

my T shirt’s soaked now and tight to my body.

I spend a long time in this cubicle.

A group of small boys, brothers I imagine, come into the restroom

and are so impressed with the red effect they don’t want to leave.

The eldest, probably around 7 or 8 years old is in the cubicle next to mine.

For some reason his hands are on the floor.

The hands of his younger brother are waving under my door.

The older brother is encouraging the others to ‘poop” so they can

spend more time in this “super" place. They are really noisy.

I wish they would leave. I’m not the only one.

Occasionally a woman who I guess to be their Mom shouts into the

restroom. The elder boy yells back “I’m pooping!”
Eventually they leave, the elder boy having flushed the toilet

although I didn’t hear him use the toilet roll. Eventually I leave too.

I’m desperate to get home. I’m watching the tiny Uber car on my phone.

It’s 2 minutes away but I have to cancel it with a

$5.00 fee. I barely make it back to the red sanctuary.
I notice the toilet bowl has red specks on it. I assume I’m throwing up blood.

Looking closer thankfully it’s paint. I spend a long time in this cubicle.
Outside again, I’m watching another little car on the screen of my phone. 
It’s 4 minutes away supposedly, but it hasn’t moved for at least 5 minutes.
It’s moving now but again I have to cancel and pay another

$5.00 cancellation fee.

Again I've barely made it to the red room.
I spend a long time in this red cubicle reflecting on earlier events.
I felt great when I woke in the morning.
I did a 9 minute Kundalini yoga practice, followed by a period of

quiet meditation.
On a roll now of well-being I also decided to start back on the

Ayurvedic routine I’d done for the Panchakarma
treatment I had in Mexico (this had been another “Artists date”)
I had to open a new batch of herbal powder which I mixed with

warm water and Ghee as recommended for twice
daily dosage.
This was the mistake I now realize.
I’ve come to MOMA on this artist’s date to look for ideas I won’t find

sitting at my desk. 

Because I’ve learned, for sure now, creative output is the result

of external input.
Especially if the input was a dodgy breakfast.