the me tow
[warning: this entry is more personal and boring, than even the other personal boring stuff here. read only if you want TMI]
Stuff I do:
Editing editing editing (right now waiting while files download). Head full of art-lead and digital dust, ugh. "If" I were a self-flogging masochist, I'd force myself to reread my entries from 2007, when I was determined that the solo show of that year would be my last. Continuing to make art after the promise-to-self to find something better ... THAT is torture. It's like continuing to work at a dead-end job where though you love the work you hate the boss. Except in this case the boss is 90% me. Last night that voice spoke up again, "WHY?" Why am I doing this? I invest lots of time and money, as well abstract things like "my reputation." I invest more than I have of any of those things. One second an idea feels totally worth pursuing; the voice feels like my own and the passion is charging every action. The next the same work feels derivative and pointless. I wish I could turn those voices off: the doubts. Do they keep me in check, or are they just bullies?
The biggest irony is that I HAVE FOUND SOMETHING BETTER in teaching. But I'm not teaching right now, and my work does bring in cash from time to time (as well as giving me a better profile as a teacher). Considering the limits of my skills, I will humbly try to feel the gratitude.
Mmmm. Bath in the gratitude, even (do it Darrell, do it!):
--I sold another drawing in Madrid and they want to do a second show in December.
--My class proposal for Fall of this year as been accepted.
yay.
Someone I'm not:
I had lunch with Susan on a Saturday. She was flattering to the point that I had to look away a few times, cheeks red. I expected catch-up conversation ... but it was almost like she was working for me, or at least for my ego. That's a talent. Often I want to let people know how much they mean to me: how great the work they do is, what an amazing citizen they are. Unfortunately, I don't have any talent at public speaking, even for a public of one. Instead I smile a lot and hope the message comes through. My friends tell me I have a rubber face that reads like headlines. I can't lie with my mouth because the truth is always there in-bold on my face. This came from being painfully shy as a kid. I learned to speak with my expressions, and then later, as a high school student, added my hands to the vocabulary when I studied American Sign Language.
Recently I was out with my pal Wayne: standing around, and hoping that being there in his company was making it clear how swell I think he is. I like his art, his personality, and his friendship, but I don't say that in any spoken language. I just AM a friend.
Susan however is good with words. Clear, kind, smart words, direct from her tongue to God's ears. She recommends I work the local art institutions, not just to get my work shown, but because (in her words) I am "historically important to the San Francisco arts scene." That was one of the points where I had to look away. It's hard to believe I had much impact, but I did have buckets of energy. Ah youth!
I think one reason I keep this journal is to try and teach myself to speak. It works sometimes, though more like a crutch than a training field. That is, when people ask me about a subject, and it's something I've already written about, I can quote the written words and expand from there.
Who knows? Now that I've written this down, maybe I can start sharing more compliments with friends like Wayne and Susan.
Someone I am:
Before the above mentioned lunch, I got an email from Andrzej. There's a fellow I relate to. Like me he is: not the greatest communicator, very kind and loyal to his friends, a lover of nature, a being whose sexuality is like a pleasant afterthought, strong but not macho, and prone to snap for reasons that are blurred in whatever psychologies that make us this way and that he (and I) circle back to with some regret. We seem very mellow, but we would never describe ourselves as such. We are sloppy with life's paperwork, but keen and quiet in observing life's details.
Andrzej is me, kicked up a notch = all those things that I just listed "we are," he is more (he's kinder, moodier, has a more ambivalent relationship with sex, and so forth). Because he is more, even I can see it.
Like narcissists, we are in love with each other. Like realists, we know we would never be able to stand our reflections if we lived as a couple. All this was made clear in the single week we spent together, one Christmas in Poland. We didn't talk a lot, and there was no need to. He showed me some of his favorite art videos, we cooked, ate, walked in the cold air. The sex was perfect, which is to say it was barely sex at all, and yet it was always there: the two of us in bed, excited and calm at once ... as if instead of having just met, we'd been lovers for decades. That's my deep dark secret, that I actually enjoy the type of sex others call boring: somewhere beyond cuddling, but not as demanding as what most people hope for when they ask you to stay the night.
Had it been more than a week, we would have been at each other the way those long-time lovers are. All the things I yell at myself in my head, I could yell at him.
Andrzej and I are both single, and I wonder if either of us would work well in a relationship with anyone. It's not the saddest thing if we never find that special someone: sad, but not the saddest. We both invest so much into friendships that we know we'll at least always have true pals.
Someone I don't know yet:
Tomorrow is Valentines Day. I've been looking at my past love relationships. I'm good friends with the lovers I spent real time with, but it was the passing ships that broke my heart. The reasons seem obvious: the less you know about someone the more there is to love. All the unknown details get filled in with possible perfections that actual experience hasn't disappointed yet. My biggest heartbreak was over a guy with whom I was mostly a pen pal (this in the days before widespread Internet). He lived in Kansas City and I was in SF. We had had some brief meetings in real life, but our love was fanned primarily in ink. He never really said goodbye. After one of our meetings, he just stopped writing.
Instead of learning from the past, many years later I got into a similarly passionate long-distance relationship with a guy from Switzerland. This is chronicled at the start of this journal. It came after the Internet boom and so about 80% of our exchange was online. Like Mr. Kanas City, this lover never had the courage to say a real goodbye, but because the Internet is quicker than the post I was at least able to put the pieces together sooner. He fell in love with a local guy and I couldn't blame him because that's what I wanted too: a round-the-way lover.
Maybe I don't stay put enough for that.
Stuff I do:
Editing editing editing (right now waiting while files download). Head full of art-lead and digital dust, ugh. "If" I were a self-flogging masochist, I'd force myself to reread my entries from 2007, when I was determined that the solo show of that year would be my last. Continuing to make art after the promise-to-self to find something better ... THAT is torture. It's like continuing to work at a dead-end job where though you love the work you hate the boss. Except in this case the boss is 90% me. Last night that voice spoke up again, "WHY?" Why am I doing this? I invest lots of time and money, as well abstract things like "my reputation." I invest more than I have of any of those things. One second an idea feels totally worth pursuing; the voice feels like my own and the passion is charging every action. The next the same work feels derivative and pointless. I wish I could turn those voices off: the doubts. Do they keep me in check, or are they just bullies?
The biggest irony is that I HAVE FOUND SOMETHING BETTER in teaching. But I'm not teaching right now, and my work does bring in cash from time to time (as well as giving me a better profile as a teacher). Considering the limits of my skills, I will humbly try to feel the gratitude.
Mmmm. Bath in the gratitude, even (do it Darrell, do it!):
--I sold another drawing in Madrid and they want to do a second show in December.
--My class proposal for Fall of this year as been accepted.
yay.
Someone I'm not:
I had lunch with Susan on a Saturday. She was flattering to the point that I had to look away a few times, cheeks red. I expected catch-up conversation ... but it was almost like she was working for me, or at least for my ego. That's a talent. Often I want to let people know how much they mean to me: how great the work they do is, what an amazing citizen they are. Unfortunately, I don't have any talent at public speaking, even for a public of one. Instead I smile a lot and hope the message comes through. My friends tell me I have a rubber face that reads like headlines. I can't lie with my mouth because the truth is always there in-bold on my face. This came from being painfully shy as a kid. I learned to speak with my expressions, and then later, as a high school student, added my hands to the vocabulary when I studied American Sign Language.
Recently I was out with my pal Wayne: standing around, and hoping that being there in his company was making it clear how swell I think he is. I like his art, his personality, and his friendship, but I don't say that in any spoken language. I just AM a friend.
Susan however is good with words. Clear, kind, smart words, direct from her tongue to God's ears. She recommends I work the local art institutions, not just to get my work shown, but because (in her words) I am "historically important to the San Francisco arts scene." That was one of the points where I had to look away. It's hard to believe I had much impact, but I did have buckets of energy. Ah youth!
I think one reason I keep this journal is to try and teach myself to speak. It works sometimes, though more like a crutch than a training field. That is, when people ask me about a subject, and it's something I've already written about, I can quote the written words and expand from there.
Who knows? Now that I've written this down, maybe I can start sharing more compliments with friends like Wayne and Susan.
Someone I am:
Before the above mentioned lunch, I got an email from Andrzej. There's a fellow I relate to. Like me he is: not the greatest communicator, very kind and loyal to his friends, a lover of nature, a being whose sexuality is like a pleasant afterthought, strong but not macho, and prone to snap for reasons that are blurred in whatever psychologies that make us this way and that he (and I) circle back to with some regret. We seem very mellow, but we would never describe ourselves as such. We are sloppy with life's paperwork, but keen and quiet in observing life's details.
Andrzej is me, kicked up a notch = all those things that I just listed "we are," he is more (he's kinder, moodier, has a more ambivalent relationship with sex, and so forth). Because he is more, even I can see it.
Like narcissists, we are in love with each other. Like realists, we know we would never be able to stand our reflections if we lived as a couple. All this was made clear in the single week we spent together, one Christmas in Poland. We didn't talk a lot, and there was no need to. He showed me some of his favorite art videos, we cooked, ate, walked in the cold air. The sex was perfect, which is to say it was barely sex at all, and yet it was always there: the two of us in bed, excited and calm at once ... as if instead of having just met, we'd been lovers for decades. That's my deep dark secret, that I actually enjoy the type of sex others call boring: somewhere beyond cuddling, but not as demanding as what most people hope for when they ask you to stay the night.
Had it been more than a week, we would have been at each other the way those long-time lovers are. All the things I yell at myself in my head, I could yell at him.
Andrzej and I are both single, and I wonder if either of us would work well in a relationship with anyone. It's not the saddest thing if we never find that special someone: sad, but not the saddest. We both invest so much into friendships that we know we'll at least always have true pals.
Someone I don't know yet:
Tomorrow is Valentines Day. I've been looking at my past love relationships. I'm good friends with the lovers I spent real time with, but it was the passing ships that broke my heart. The reasons seem obvious: the less you know about someone the more there is to love. All the unknown details get filled in with possible perfections that actual experience hasn't disappointed yet. My biggest heartbreak was over a guy with whom I was mostly a pen pal (this in the days before widespread Internet). He lived in Kansas City and I was in SF. We had had some brief meetings in real life, but our love was fanned primarily in ink. He never really said goodbye. After one of our meetings, he just stopped writing.
Instead of learning from the past, many years later I got into a similarly passionate long-distance relationship with a guy from Switzerland. This is chronicled at the start of this journal. It came after the Internet boom and so about 80% of our exchange was online. Like Mr. Kanas City, this lover never had the courage to say a real goodbye, but because the Internet is quicker than the post I was at least able to put the pieces together sooner. He fell in love with a local guy and I couldn't blame him because that's what I wanted too: a round-the-way lover.
Maybe I don't stay put enough for that.