boring stuff that is very important to me because I am boring
I too closely equate a project with a relationship. I fall in love very quickly, regardless of whether or not it has potential, and when it does have potential, I waffle like some twit teenage girl before a dance, Should I go with Billy or Jimbo, oh, gosh, I don't know! They're both dreamy, but is either of them the one? Wretch, gag.
And then I remind myself that it's only been A WEEK since I declared the last love affair finito. And the kindly woman who lives inside my head to comfort me says, "Take a load off, asshole. Jesus."
Time moves very differently for me right now than I imagine it does for the rest of the world. Seven days is an eternity when all your time is truly yours and you have weeks spread out in front of you with only a couple pressing appointments. I'm not complaining, I like it, I'm just saying, your week was my month.
I am also disturbingly comfortable having limited human contact. Band practice and cameo appearances at the cafe do the trick just fine. This comes as no surprise. I'm a little worried about the shock to the system that will result from diving head first back into reality, but, hey, I'm hoping it coincides with a couple other significant tremors, say, an invitation to submit my entire manuscript, so maybe I'll be sufficiently distracted and so all-around giddy with progress that I won't give a shit.
- - -
The other night, I officially retired from visual art. I retired to Ben, who's been trying to get me to draw him some monkeys for a tattoo for something like three years. He said, "I still want those monkeys."
And I said, with great lightness of heart, "You know, buddy, sorry, but I think I've retired."
He accepted my resignation.
It felt so good then, that I decided I should say it again on record. So I will -
I NO LONGER HAVE ANY DESIRE TO CREATE VISUAL ART. I THINK IT WAS NICE FOR A WHILE, BUT ART HAS GOTTEN ALL ITS GOOD OUT OF ME AND VICE VERSA. WE ARE BOTH MUCH HAPPIER FOR THE SEPARATION.
And then I remind myself that it's only been A WEEK since I declared the last love affair finito. And the kindly woman who lives inside my head to comfort me says, "Take a load off, asshole. Jesus."
Time moves very differently for me right now than I imagine it does for the rest of the world. Seven days is an eternity when all your time is truly yours and you have weeks spread out in front of you with only a couple pressing appointments. I'm not complaining, I like it, I'm just saying, your week was my month.
I am also disturbingly comfortable having limited human contact. Band practice and cameo appearances at the cafe do the trick just fine. This comes as no surprise. I'm a little worried about the shock to the system that will result from diving head first back into reality, but, hey, I'm hoping it coincides with a couple other significant tremors, say, an invitation to submit my entire manuscript, so maybe I'll be sufficiently distracted and so all-around giddy with progress that I won't give a shit.
- - -
The other night, I officially retired from visual art. I retired to Ben, who's been trying to get me to draw him some monkeys for a tattoo for something like three years. He said, "I still want those monkeys."
And I said, with great lightness of heart, "You know, buddy, sorry, but I think I've retired."
He accepted my resignation.
It felt so good then, that I decided I should say it again on record. So I will -
I NO LONGER HAVE ANY DESIRE TO CREATE VISUAL ART. I THINK IT WAS NICE FOR A WHILE, BUT ART HAS GOTTEN ALL ITS GOOD OUT OF ME AND VICE VERSA. WE ARE BOTH MUCH HAPPIER FOR THE SEPARATION.