Fear and pride - what a fucking stupid combination.
Right. Okay.
Today I was taken by my father to the college of West Dean (which is doom and pretty and filled with trees and crows and lovely architecture) for their open day.
My father's plan is that for my nameday, he pays for me to do a short course there in the near future. (It must be a two or three day course at least, he will also pay accommodation.) It can be on anything that takes my fancy. Creative writing, painting, drawing, illustration, tapestry, book binding, print making, silver smithing, conservation - you name it, they likely do it and indeed have a strong rep for doing it very well.
Today showed me two things: namely that I desperately wanted to attend 'master classes' in print/jewellery/art/writing, also, that the whole thing fucking terrified me.
Which was a bit of a depressing revelation really. (It rather argues that I have less self-confidence than I had when I started uni at Royal Holloway - and damn if I wasn't messed up and fractured then...)
Actually I know exactly why I'm petrified. I'm freaked by anyone spending that amount of money on me especially when it's an uncertain investment which may or may not reap benefits. Secondly, everyone is allowed to be brash and nervous and inexperienced when they're going to uni from school to learn a random skill or discipline. But frankly, if you've been to uni already, are 32 and have hair that's naturally silver and a smile quite as sarcastic as mine, one is expected to be a little more battle-hardened. And I'm not. Thirdly, I know I'm jack of various trades and master of bugger all. My knowledge of screen prints is from A-level, photography was GCSE. Sewing was made up as I went along, and silversmithing was whatever I could get my mother to tell me - she who had no spare time and who had just taken two courses at Richmond College. I really don't have the confidence to brazen out the gaps my knowledge holds. I did, once upon a time; but apparently not any more.
Lastly, and it's a very small point but a sickeningly all-pervasive one: I don't trust my mind to retain anything it's told any more. I really don't. I was always a bit shit at something that didn't follow an 'instinctive' path - hence my cooking is pretty good, my chemistry utter shit. And since floofing about and looking after my mother... I just... I just... I'm flakey and my memory's worse and I'm not sure any of you lot know quite how much that - that - drowns and crushes me. ... Yeah, yeah, sounds dumb. I know. I know. And that knowledge doesn't help any.
Aaah fuck, my neurons are in such a flid.
And I'm so PISSED at them for being so pathetic.
Bleh.
Meanwhile my WWI jacket looks at me reproachfully. ... yeah, I would too but I'm not up to mirrors currently.
Today I was taken by my father to the college of West Dean (which is doom and pretty and filled with trees and crows and lovely architecture) for their open day.
My father's plan is that for my nameday, he pays for me to do a short course there in the near future. (It must be a two or three day course at least, he will also pay accommodation.) It can be on anything that takes my fancy. Creative writing, painting, drawing, illustration, tapestry, book binding, print making, silver smithing, conservation - you name it, they likely do it and indeed have a strong rep for doing it very well.
Today showed me two things: namely that I desperately wanted to attend 'master classes' in print/jewellery/art/writing, also, that the whole thing fucking terrified me.
Which was a bit of a depressing revelation really. (It rather argues that I have less self-confidence than I had when I started uni at Royal Holloway - and damn if I wasn't messed up and fractured then...)
Actually I know exactly why I'm petrified. I'm freaked by anyone spending that amount of money on me especially when it's an uncertain investment which may or may not reap benefits. Secondly, everyone is allowed to be brash and nervous and inexperienced when they're going to uni from school to learn a random skill or discipline. But frankly, if you've been to uni already, are 32 and have hair that's naturally silver and a smile quite as sarcastic as mine, one is expected to be a little more battle-hardened. And I'm not. Thirdly, I know I'm jack of various trades and master of bugger all. My knowledge of screen prints is from A-level, photography was GCSE. Sewing was made up as I went along, and silversmithing was whatever I could get my mother to tell me - she who had no spare time and who had just taken two courses at Richmond College. I really don't have the confidence to brazen out the gaps my knowledge holds. I did, once upon a time; but apparently not any more.
Lastly, and it's a very small point but a sickeningly all-pervasive one: I don't trust my mind to retain anything it's told any more. I really don't. I was always a bit shit at something that didn't follow an 'instinctive' path - hence my cooking is pretty good, my chemistry utter shit. And since floofing about and looking after my mother... I just... I just... I'm flakey and my memory's worse and I'm not sure any of you lot know quite how much that - that - drowns and crushes me. ... Yeah, yeah, sounds dumb. I know. I know. And that knowledge doesn't help any.
Aaah fuck, my neurons are in such a flid.
And I'm so PISSED at them for being so pathetic.
Bleh.
Meanwhile my WWI jacket looks at me reproachfully. ... yeah, I would too but I'm not up to mirrors currently.