Cut & Paste
I don't know if I just made art or a mess. I don't know if it's a self-portrait or a mistake. The semester is winding down, and it's impossible to distinguish the relationship between self-expression and procrastination. The collage is bloody and colorful and celestial, and as absurd as it is sad. Tomorrow, I may stare the thing in the face and say,"You could have been a really nice nap."
I've always laughed at the concept of art therapy. Probably to shield my insecurities about being unable to draw a straight line. But today, I just wanted to forget without getting fucked up. So I found solace in scissors and glue. Magazine pages rustle beneath my fingertips, demanding immersion into a glossy world of superficiality couched in idealism. It's just relief, sifting through pictures of graveyards, yogis, water, pills, stars... and subsequently being hypnotized by the sound of my scissors slicing through shiny wood pulp. Call me easily amused. Call me self-indulgent. Just don't call me an artist.
Little things don't upset me these days. It could be because I'm a little toasted. Not burnt, just toasted. This week went up in smoke. It could also be that I'm too busy dealing to let things get to me. For example, my cell phone (nay, DEATH phone) sometimes dies right after I turn it on. (I'm sure it's all part of some huge cosmic joke. Death chick's cell phone dies often, if only for the sake of irony). My computer seemed about to crash the other day. When shit like this happens, I think, "Fuck it all," and cuddle with my teddy bear. His name is Stormy. Yes, Stormy Waters. I've also got two stuffed dogs named Muddy and Roger. I brought Roger back after Thanksgiving. I need to cling to soft things, and the bubble I live in has too many sharp edges.
I've always laughed at the concept of art therapy. Probably to shield my insecurities about being unable to draw a straight line. But today, I just wanted to forget without getting fucked up. So I found solace in scissors and glue. Magazine pages rustle beneath my fingertips, demanding immersion into a glossy world of superficiality couched in idealism. It's just relief, sifting through pictures of graveyards, yogis, water, pills, stars... and subsequently being hypnotized by the sound of my scissors slicing through shiny wood pulp. Call me easily amused. Call me self-indulgent. Just don't call me an artist.
Little things don't upset me these days. It could be because I'm a little toasted. Not burnt, just toasted. This week went up in smoke. It could also be that I'm too busy dealing to let things get to me. For example, my cell phone (nay, DEATH phone) sometimes dies right after I turn it on. (I'm sure it's all part of some huge cosmic joke. Death chick's cell phone dies often, if only for the sake of irony). My computer seemed about to crash the other day. When shit like this happens, I think, "Fuck it all," and cuddle with my teddy bear. His name is Stormy. Yes, Stormy Waters. I've also got two stuffed dogs named Muddy and Roger. I brought Roger back after Thanksgiving. I need to cling to soft things, and the bubble I live in has too many sharp edges.