this is a lot of dribble disguised as text it would do you well to avoid it.
It's one of those days again. They come more frequently now. Ones where I am not entirely sure what I am doing with my life, why I am such a dilettante with no real talent to speak of (I mean I am good at many things but truly talented and commited, I seem to be coming up short.)
I know I am hard on myself. I get a lot of crap for that. The plain and simple truth is if I am not an exception I am just a hunk of meat as I expected. I don't want to be just biology, I need something more than that but feel incredibly incapable of commiting to said something. Whenever I get interested in doing something I put the bar so fucking high and then I never accomplish anything and therefore don't commit and then subsequently fail.
ironically even this is not original. Every single artist has felt this way, anyone who calls themself an artist and hasn't felt this way has no respect for their craft. Look at the David, everyone notices the exquisite proportions and beautiful form but does anyone look at the David's face? It's Michelangelo's self portrait, of his doubt. Look at the David's face just once, it's anguish.
You know I totally get that scene in a Beautiful Mind where he starts to panic, muttering about a truly original idea. He bangs his head against the glass where he was writing. I totally get that. All I want is that one original concept. Children of Men. I feel like I could have done so much more with that concept than PD James but she came up with it. She had the originality to pull that from abstraction. I feel that all my ideas are amalgamations of original ideas that moved me. I need that original idea, the original voice to tell it with. Like slaughterhouse five using time travel to tell the dresden story. Fuck, that's great. Or the scene in the Human Stain where she gives her ring to the crow. Amazing. Can you imagine being as smart or honest as Phillip Roth?
It dawns on me that I may never be this creative that I will beat myself up about it until the day I submit to all exhausted avenues. I may forever be plauged by doubt. It's the one thing that haunts me consistently. I mean we can't all be right about life. Some of us can be right some of the time and we can't be wrong all the time but we certainly all can't be right all the time. I think my greatest ability is to empathize, but its also totally fucking me up. I work so hard to understand all other point of views that I myself have no point of view. Is this insane?
I haven't painted in a long time. In fact most of my paint is still at Kish, where hopefully it wasn't thrown out. I painted a silly picture or a dog but that's not a real painting.
I may be doomed to be an observer of art instead of an artist, this has occured to me. Because I refuse to lower my standards for my own art, I am forever fitted to stand before others and know that I can do better if I could only find a way. Bow before masters and feel inadequate, always. To know what that is, to know it and not be it is paramount to insanity. This itching and strain within your heart for more, insatiable hunger.
Maybe I am just a masochist. Do you know what my favorite kind of songs are? The ones that wrench your heart out and leave you a little more hallow than before. Ones that can destroy you. Isn't that fucked up? I like the surface tension. I like the ache. I can feel more that way. Maybe that's the most artistic thing about me. The fact that I am totally fucked up.
This is just random musing and that's really why I like this journal. I'm almost certain that you haven't made it this far, if you have I applaude you and scold you because I am sure that you have better things to do with your time than listen to me bitch about a life that is much better than others. I am not the vicitim of genocide or poverty or rape or even a broken home. My parents are ridiculously generous, to a fault. I have a really good life. I just don't feel worthy of it sometimes. I know that there is some kind of path for me. It's just unfounded right now. Perhaps it has yet to be paved and can only be paved by myself. Too bad I suck at construction. Oh wow, I am a nut.
my current projects: A children's midgrade novel, a round of freelance greeting cards, a series of picture books, an adult surrealist novel, adapting a melodrama for a summer production, creating a set for said melodrama, painting my nails, loosing 50 pounds, reinventing myself, understanding time and space, getting your approval, finding some kind of love, any kind, selling used books and films on the internet, harnessing cold hard cash to survive in our commerce driven existence, getting your approval, writing a stageplay to sell at the earliest date to get cold hard cash and earn your approval, wearing a hat, making endcaps, slowly wasting away whenever a customer dare asks, "Do you know of a book called... the secret?"
Do you want to know the secret?
The secret is go fuck yourself. That is your fucking secret.
I know I am hard on myself. I get a lot of crap for that. The plain and simple truth is if I am not an exception I am just a hunk of meat as I expected. I don't want to be just biology, I need something more than that but feel incredibly incapable of commiting to said something. Whenever I get interested in doing something I put the bar so fucking high and then I never accomplish anything and therefore don't commit and then subsequently fail.
ironically even this is not original. Every single artist has felt this way, anyone who calls themself an artist and hasn't felt this way has no respect for their craft. Look at the David, everyone notices the exquisite proportions and beautiful form but does anyone look at the David's face? It's Michelangelo's self portrait, of his doubt. Look at the David's face just once, it's anguish.
You know I totally get that scene in a Beautiful Mind where he starts to panic, muttering about a truly original idea. He bangs his head against the glass where he was writing. I totally get that. All I want is that one original concept. Children of Men. I feel like I could have done so much more with that concept than PD James but she came up with it. She had the originality to pull that from abstraction. I feel that all my ideas are amalgamations of original ideas that moved me. I need that original idea, the original voice to tell it with. Like slaughterhouse five using time travel to tell the dresden story. Fuck, that's great. Or the scene in the Human Stain where she gives her ring to the crow. Amazing. Can you imagine being as smart or honest as Phillip Roth?
It dawns on me that I may never be this creative that I will beat myself up about it until the day I submit to all exhausted avenues. I may forever be plauged by doubt. It's the one thing that haunts me consistently. I mean we can't all be right about life. Some of us can be right some of the time and we can't be wrong all the time but we certainly all can't be right all the time. I think my greatest ability is to empathize, but its also totally fucking me up. I work so hard to understand all other point of views that I myself have no point of view. Is this insane?
I haven't painted in a long time. In fact most of my paint is still at Kish, where hopefully it wasn't thrown out. I painted a silly picture or a dog but that's not a real painting.
I may be doomed to be an observer of art instead of an artist, this has occured to me. Because I refuse to lower my standards for my own art, I am forever fitted to stand before others and know that I can do better if I could only find a way. Bow before masters and feel inadequate, always. To know what that is, to know it and not be it is paramount to insanity. This itching and strain within your heart for more, insatiable hunger.
Maybe I am just a masochist. Do you know what my favorite kind of songs are? The ones that wrench your heart out and leave you a little more hallow than before. Ones that can destroy you. Isn't that fucked up? I like the surface tension. I like the ache. I can feel more that way. Maybe that's the most artistic thing about me. The fact that I am totally fucked up.
This is just random musing and that's really why I like this journal. I'm almost certain that you haven't made it this far, if you have I applaude you and scold you because I am sure that you have better things to do with your time than listen to me bitch about a life that is much better than others. I am not the vicitim of genocide or poverty or rape or even a broken home. My parents are ridiculously generous, to a fault. I have a really good life. I just don't feel worthy of it sometimes. I know that there is some kind of path for me. It's just unfounded right now. Perhaps it has yet to be paved and can only be paved by myself. Too bad I suck at construction. Oh wow, I am a nut.
my current projects: A children's midgrade novel, a round of freelance greeting cards, a series of picture books, an adult surrealist novel, adapting a melodrama for a summer production, creating a set for said melodrama, painting my nails, loosing 50 pounds, reinventing myself, understanding time and space, getting your approval, finding some kind of love, any kind, selling used books and films on the internet, harnessing cold hard cash to survive in our commerce driven existence, getting your approval, writing a stageplay to sell at the earliest date to get cold hard cash and earn your approval, wearing a hat, making endcaps, slowly wasting away whenever a customer dare asks, "Do you know of a book called... the secret?"
Do you want to know the secret?
The secret is go fuck yourself. That is your fucking secret.