Why I’m cool with GRRM taking his time; today at least.

23 04 2016

I can’t kill myself until I read the last A Song of Ice and Fire books. That will probably give me another….20 years at least.


20 03 2012

Light dances on the windowsill, waking me. Sleep does not leave me quietly.  Laying there the silent battle in my head debating the day, the life, the work, causes my head to throb.  My jaw aches from my anxious grinding. Opening my mouth I hear, but don’t really feel the light click of my mandible popping back into place.  I’ve turned my alarm off perhaps ten times, and wondered why I woke up at least eight. I can’t tell whether an hour or five minutes has passed.  Finally I find myself standing before my coffee grinder not remembering getting out of bed.

I’m on the T and people surround me, I look at the clock on my phone and realize I’m going to be late, I can barely breathe.  I’m at home standing at the doorway holding the knob in my hand. How long have I been standing here? What time is it? My stomach, aches, lurches, and I shake.  My backpack feels as if I had filled it with bricks. I sit it down, look through the veil of the white curtain out onto the road, I need to be on, and try to turn the doorknob. My fingers flow gently over the cool brass warming it, and I try to turn, but can’t seem to remember how. Suddenly the heat of the knob is scorching, my hand flees the knob as to avoid being burned.  I check the dead bolt, then go lay back down.

The studio calls me, and my head screams at me to move, get up, get out, go do, go make, but my heart reminds me of the endless talk, that takes and beats the life out of what I love, and some one hands me the stake, “We’re merely deconstructing what it means to paint, what it means to make art, what it means to be an artist,” Some how deconstruction got confused with destruction, and I can not participate in the naive massacre.

When I do make it up to the studio, its like staring at an empty mirror, not recognizing who or where I am. I try grounding techniques, but that only seems to send me flying further away, or deeper down. My shell walks above me, and I am trapped below looking up through murky waters, reaching, reaching, reaching, for the surface but never making it up for air.

I was not always this way? I cannot honestly affirm yes or no. I know myself as a disconnected thing searching for the self and knowing the outside other. For most it seems that they know the other exists because of the self, but for me it is reversed, my greatest other is myself.

When I am fully present I remember everything and feel everything that was. Those horrible moments that lead me to this state of fractured self. I try to make work about it, because that’s what I want to do more than anything. But when the reflection is empty, how can the hero kill the gorgon?

Pills oh the pills, the hope filled oblongs of promises: sanity, clarity, and health.  But only one will work, only one is the right match, and thousands of suitors sit before me and shout, “Eat Me!”. Like Alice I reach and take, with the trust or sheer curiosity that this one, this one will work, this one will help. I sit on the couch and spew out and the back and forth helps relieve some pressure, but mostly I still feel as though I treading water waiting to remember how to swim.

In the fall it was attack, attack, attack, always on the offense, but with the winter I grew weary and weak. Sick with exhaustion from the battle and trying to cull the screaming wellspring of anger that was inside of me, and missing my target every time.  Reviewing and seeing all my work together was helpful, made me realize how being up on the rack for too, long can weaken one’s muscles. The words I used were filled with uncertainty and confusion, and spoken with a quietness coming from insecurity and doubt rather than humility. I did not want to speak so much as I wanted to listen to what those I respected had to say about what they saw, what they were experiencing.

The monsters inside of me battle. One: the monster creator. The other: the monster unnamed. The creator had been loosing this winter, tired from the constant thrashing and hunting of the unnamed. But now, now, new light has come and I see, the monster creator sees, that hunting for that which is unnamed has no reward, there is too much to do, too much to make.  That which is unnamed does not need me nor a creator to name it, let that monster find its own name, let it be, let it be unknown.

Snickers and Gossip Girl

26 01 2012

Yesterday I woke up in such a good mood! And I did laundry the for the first time since I’ve been back to Boston…I know. 

I got dressed and ready to head out for my meeting that I was supposed to be at I thought noon, but my laundry wasn’t done… and the idea of rushing to leave when it was 11, then 11:30, 11:45…

I ended up sending an email to the person I was supposed to be meeting that I had a migraine. 

But I told myself that I would make it to the artist talk at the MFA…

The night ended with me eating plenty of tiny snickers (for dinner) drinking  Bombay with lime, and watching Gossip Girl… with intermitted tears. (not at gossip girl at least)

OH and drunk texting my friend commentary.


Note to self: Gossip Girl binges do not cure depression.