(no subject)
I can't really decide whether any of these new developments are because of fear, weariness, realism, selfishness or some deep shift in mentality. I'm not exactly sure what effect I have on anyone anymore, or if I have any effect at all. I feel like I've made a point to become a blip on everybody's radar, and now all I have to do is wait for something to happen. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Maybe I'm waiting for it all to end. Maybe I'm waiting for something to draw me out again. Maybe I'm just being a self-indulgent idiot who's been too into tortured artists lately-- honestly, I can hardly tell the difference between me and my actual reactions, and me acting as I hope I'd react in some dimension where I may like who I am, or be who I want to be. So basically, it's all the same as it ever was.
I wish I could write. It's been so long, and feels so much longer than it actually is. But I know that if I try it will only make matters worse-- or maybe that's my problem. I wait for some magical source of inspiration, when really, there might be none unless you make it. I just need to sit down and just do it. But I will hate myself soon afterward.
In the real, tangible world, things are all right. I finished my breadth pretty much, and it felt good to take that figure drawing class, and just spend a good hour or two doing nothing but mindless mark-making. I think everybody was pretty shocked at how young I was (they were all over 40, most likely, if not over 50 or 60), and I think Mrs. Porco is quite upset that I asked to keep the sketches at school. They wouldn't survive in my house, and I'd really need them as a reference anyway. Blahblahblah I'm babbling senselessly.
The point is: I'm going to NY next week and need to buy some coats this weekend. I'm waiting for several e-mails about bake sales and Manos book bags and passport renewals. I'm dreading taking Austin and her friend home because I'm tired and I don't like her friend. I wish I could write. I wish I was a better artist. I wish I could play an instrument. I'm making Nutella brownies tomorrow that will be fabulous. Bob Dylan is my new idol and love of my life. I'm tired all the time, and dyed my hair yesterday. My phone's been dead for the last two days. I've gained about 10 pounds over the last 12 hours. This is my life.
I wish I could write. It's been so long, and feels so much longer than it actually is. But I know that if I try it will only make matters worse-- or maybe that's my problem. I wait for some magical source of inspiration, when really, there might be none unless you make it. I just need to sit down and just do it. But I will hate myself soon afterward.
In the real, tangible world, things are all right. I finished my breadth pretty much, and it felt good to take that figure drawing class, and just spend a good hour or two doing nothing but mindless mark-making. I think everybody was pretty shocked at how young I was (they were all over 40, most likely, if not over 50 or 60), and I think Mrs. Porco is quite upset that I asked to keep the sketches at school. They wouldn't survive in my house, and I'd really need them as a reference anyway. Blahblahblah I'm babbling senselessly.
The point is: I'm going to NY next week and need to buy some coats this weekend. I'm waiting for several e-mails about bake sales and Manos book bags and passport renewals. I'm dreading taking Austin and her friend home because I'm tired and I don't like her friend. I wish I could write. I wish I was a better artist. I wish I could play an instrument. I'm making Nutella brownies tomorrow that will be fabulous. Bob Dylan is my new idol and love of my life. I'm tired all the time, and dyed my hair yesterday. My phone's been dead for the last two days. I've gained about 10 pounds over the last 12 hours. This is my life.