Intent

I feel sadness.

It’s a rare day when I can say that. I can be annoyed quite a bit, I’ve been increasingly angry. But sadness is the most uncommon thing, and it’s been very much present the past few days.

I’ve been mentally pointing accusing fingers at caffeine, hormones, the weather…I’ve no idea where to place any blame. I settled on the idea that it must be all that has happened suddenly suffocating me at once. And looking back now I remember feeling that it would come to this.

I started posting private vlogs on a new e-mail, thinking it might help. But my need to hide them from nearly everyone has made them useless to me. So I suppose I need to start posting them publicly.

A few days ago I felt a sudden steel certainty that I had to change things. I am 20 now. I need to start actively creating and working towards a life where I can make money doing things I enjoy. That day was the beginning of this sadness.

Maybe there’s a part of my subconscious that feels like a failure? A failure as an artist, and as all else? Maybe that’s why I had an extreme emotional reaction to someone’s casual joke about my drawing of a large eye. I felt that it confirmed something. I ran off and took a shower of all things, and I had my different feelings battle themselves out in my head. What it meant, what my reaction meant, what it all means.

I collapse on the inside when I imagine the possibility of going to school, graduating, and then filling a slot that someone wrote out for me to do. You know, an office job or something. Some set of daily tasks that someone else created. A position that makes me replaceable. Even jobs that I used to dream about. WitSec agent, criminal profiler, psychologist. They’re names for sets of tasks.

I want to feel free.

More and more I don’t feel free, I don’t feel that I’m throwing wide the door. And I think it creates a deep panic, like the walls are closing in on me to crush me. It’s going so far against what my nature has been clawing for ever since I was 11. But what else is there to do? I’m not going anywhere, and I need stability. I need to recover and clear my mental fog.

It’s almost a scary thing sometimes. More and more it’s a scarier thing. Like there’s something really wild in the marrow of my bones and all it wants is free reign and adventure. It wants an enormous canvas and whatever stupid colors I feel like using, and it wants to paint whatever the heck it wants without feeling anxious about whether or not it’ll sell, about whether or not there’s a market for someone like me and my work. There’s a market for everyone! I say to myself. Yes, yes there is. But the issue is whether or not it’s a big enough market to let me be free. To supply things adult humans need to go on and do what we’d like.

I haven’t been truly inspired for over a month now, I paint and draw eyes when I can’t think of anything else. Because you can do so much with eyes.

I used to draw beautiful dresses. I can’t draw them anymore. I’ve lost that completely. Ever since I had a short spat with bulimia and made a new promise to myself to stay strong against it (which resulted in my drawing here, Effects of Thinspo) I can’t view female figures the same way.

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I’ll begin to sketch an ideal hips-to-waist ratio and then my hands go against the desire to make something perfect.

NO! They shout, what is perfection?

Perhaps I want to paint something everyone will view as lovely?

Anything can be viewed as lovely. An ugly face with the right personality is lovely.

Ideal figures will sell more.

Why do you want to make crap that’ll sell?

Because I freaking need to. 

Why?

So I won’t be trapped working as a secretary or a waitress at a normal freaking job and die a nobody. That’s why.

Sincerity sells. Just be sincere in your art.

That didn’t sell very well before.

Do you want to become someone by making things everyone approves of? Is creativity your cash ticket now? Is that what art is to you now? Is it your tool?

I need to begin somewhere.

And so the battle will rage on for a while until I stare at the boxy or disproportionate figure on my little canvas in front of me and I want to scream and throw something. Time, time, time. So quickly there is no time. My hands won’t obey me. At least, they try, but can’t get far anymore.

Trapped, incapable.

I feel so…agitated. I feel that I’m capable of so much. Why can’t I make the things I know I can? Why does it have to turn into an internal war?

There’s a documentary I’ve been planning for years now, but I’m always so torn about starting it because I can feel my intent surrounding its creation quickly morphing from sincere to…other things. Imagining the attention, the process, the possible cash flow. How cold and sick and odd of me. And I always decide against starting it because I want to make something that large only if I’m determined in the beauty of it.

I know myself. I know that I’ll keep pressing on, keep trying and eventually I’ll reach a brainplace that lets me create, once I stop demanding inspiration.

As for all else happening, it seems that it’s just a tsunami of feels about everything that has happened since I moved to WV, and it’s simply something to ride out.

I’ll be fine.

I’m just a very frustrated, very sad, quite scared human at the moment. I’ve not changed to this darkness for good. I can feel that.

<^_^>

Writing and Cringing and Feeling

“With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.” – Max Ehrmann

 

There’s a cafe in downtown Fairmont I’ve gotten used to visiting when I’m waiting on a bus. The little doodle above was created after one of these mornings, which would be this morning…words…there is a much lovelier way of saying everything I just said…

Speaking of words, I recently put a bunch of them in a particular order for The Writer’s Arena, it was…different. I’ve never done something public like that solo. 

I think I feel the same way I do about writing as I do drawing. If there’s a request/subject I struggle and fail to create something notable, I suck at focused fiction. I enjoy writing it, but only if it has nowhere to go and no one to answer to.

I did enjoy writing for the Arena, I enjoy doing pretty much anything for my HEPodcast amigos, I just cringe a little thinking about my story and what it’s going against. I don’t write truly frequently, I don’t believe I’m a writer, at least not the brand that does well on things like this. It’s the thought of an inexperienced 20-year old kid (moi) going against a real writerly hooman.

A couple months ago I recorded a podcast episode with one of the podcast fellows, I was unprepared and frazzled and completely dull and I was stuttering and stumbling. My brain had no real thoughts, at least no complete ones. I was so embarrassed by it that they were kind enough to never release it. It made me dislike a lot of pieces of my personality. My fear of looking stupid or unprepared, how overprotective I can be of my reputation, the fact that I didn’t even try to enjoy the book we were reviewing. And I should have, I should have tried to understand the series and the author and get attached to the characters. 

But I viewed it as a fun favor and didn’t bother to take the whole thing to heart, I actually procrastinated and didn’t fight to sink myself into the story, I just came up with a reward system to get through the book chapter-by-chapter. And I’ve discovered that when I jump into something half-heartedly I fail miserably.

I think I’m worried about doing that with the Arena. Because I’m not sure I embraced it with my whole self. And I wonder if I made excuses for myself, and made it acceptable to myself to not try harder to love the act and the process.

I’ve told friends before in the middle of advice rants that they can’t help what they feel, only how they respond and act on the feelings. But in a sense, we can control what we feel. It’s just too often I’m too lazy to attempt to do something about it. We can look at things differently and work harder to understand them. We can chip away pieces of anger or sadness and soften ourselves. 

I have a feeling throughout this entire post I am half right and half wrong.

I’m not sure, I’m not thinking very clearly. So it’s very likely I’ll read this over and shake my head.

I hope I stop being afraid of eyes and ears and the thoughts of others. It seems like a ridiculously simple thing to do. It seems simple to say I am my own personI am not what others see

Shake off what everyone thinks, and this and that and so on.

I have a fear of becoming too much of some things and too little of others. I’m afraid of being fat and careless and selfish. I’m afraid of being a nobody and of talking and being all talk and blinking and being an old lady with nothing to show for all my talk and young ambition. And I tend to look at other’s opinion of me (specifically, my close friends and family) to see how well I’m actually doing.

If I’m showing how much I care often enough, if I’m reaching out and responding and communicating and following through. If I’m doing right by the people who matter.

Anyway, I have a bus to catch back into Morgantown. So I will go ahead and publish this and see if I regret it later.

Stay groovy.

In Motion

Phooey, where to begin?

I’m in West Virginia.

I live here now.

I have an awesome roommate, I like my house, I’m happy about the job I recently got.

I’m worried about getting comfortable when it comes to the things I want to accomplish in life, I’m worried about starting to tell myself “I have time.” or “I’m so young.”

While being interviewed for one job they mentioned the benefits that employees get after one year of working for the company.

And I found myself actually shaking my head a little, the thought of staying with one job for a whole year is impossible for me now. I stayed with Toys “R” Us in California for a year because I had a very clear goal in mind, I had my list of priorities and getting my life straight and steady while prepping to move to West Virginia was at the top of my list.

And I’m here now. And I have the things I need (except for my car, which I won’t have for a bit longer, but the bus system in Morgantown is spectacular.)

I just need to focus on pumping out any type of creative content frequently. There is a large project of mine I’m going to try to finally set in motion, which will likely require a little help from my Internet peoples.

And I’m going to work harder at selling my stuff, and painting and drawing things that might actually sell.

I have hope. I just need to remember to never tell myself, “I have time.”

10 Days

I’m tired.

I am tired.

I’m tired.
I feel a pile of things I need to do always just sort of lingering by me at all times.
Most of it is things I’ve set myself up for. I don’t think I’m complaining. It doesn’t feel like I’m complaining.
The move feels very, terrifyingly close. But so far away.
I don’t know what I’m going to wear when I leave.
I don’t know what more to do right now.
I should go to bed.
I’m afraid. I’m scared.
I feel very alone.
I feel sad.
Hopeful and sad.
Excited and sad.
It’s the right move. I want this.
At least, I want this the most.
More than other things.
Why am I a procrastinator all of a sudden?
It’s like nothing orders itself in my mind anymore. Nothing plans itself out. There are no check boxes.
It’s like fuzzy chaos.
It’s like I’m staring straight ahead at a tsunami of a crowd, of pandemonium, but I can’t focus on anything.
Everywhere is my periphery.
I think I had a super power before.
I think it’s the stress getting to me.
The guilt and sadness and stress.
The loneliness.
Tense, I feel tense. I feel like piano wire. I feel like violin strings. No, one violin string. The thinnest.
I keep making a lot of tiny mistakes.
I keep saying things and I wonder why I can’t just stay quiet.
I’m good at observing, I should just observe more.
I shouldn’t stay quiet, that’s an odd thing to think. No one should.
I think maybe I should just not speak unless I have a real question or fully understand the subject being discussed.
I’m so afraid all the time of looking dumb, and yet I seem to set myself up for it.
It’s a silly thing to be afraid of.
I shouldn’t be afraid of that.
I’ll forget to be afraid of it, anyway.
I want to be unafraid of asking stupid questions.
Why is it so hard for me to get back to people now?
I’m intimidated by responses, I’m afraid of sounding like I don’t care.
I ramble so much.
I tell unnecessary stories.
Maybe they do like them, but I shouldn’t really be taking that risk that they get bored with them.
I wonder how often I’m someone who is simply tolerated.
They can tell I’m too young,
too naive
too inexperienced.
Too green, too empty-headed.
It feels like I make a lot of people feel inferior, at least a few.
When I’m not known very well folks get the impression that I’m brighter than I am.
That I’m more capable than I am.
And I’m torn between wanting to keep their perception strong and make myself think a little that they’re right. And being so freakishly sincere that they feel a bit higher than me.
Everything is silly to worry about.
Some tiny thing in the grand scheme.
I’m okay, and everything will be okay.
I’m going to throw wide the door, and do things I love. And I will make things.
I’m fine.
Just a bit tired.

Art Hop and Other Jazz

ImageArt Hop Day 😀

 

ImageMy wall ^_^ImageImageImageTried out a blue hair streak. I’m in the process of making a documentary for my brother’s church, and before heading out for an interview with the pastor I followed an impulse. Blue hair and blue eyeshadow.

I think I’m embracing creative impulses more often. 

And I’m less terrified of taking pictures of myself and posting them online. I used to think that it would make me seem full of myself.
Now it feels like posting something I made. 

I remember when I hadn’t seen a picture of my profile in a while, perhaps 4 years. I have no idea how I managed this. But when I was 14 and saw a reflection of my profile I felt devastated. It looked totally different than what I had remembered. I didn’t recognize myself. My nose had lost it’s ‘ski slope’ quality and to me it looked huuuuuge. I thought I looked hideous.

Bagh…I feel weird typing about myself in between two pictures of myself…I wonder if I’ll read this in a few months and dislike it very much. But I’ll just go on and say what I was going to.

I think I’ve come to a place where I accept myself fully. And my appearance was the last thing I had to look at and say that I approved of. 

Besides the random blue periods (ha, blue…it’s kinda funny now because of the hair pictures…) I feel hopeful and happy, and I feel capable and proud of myself. This is the healthiest physically and mentally I’ve ever been.

I’m reminded of a piece of an essay I read once by F. Scott Fitzgerald: 

“And lastly from that period I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.”

I don’t feel I’m at that place, at least not yet. But I thought it was a feels-gripping bit, so I wanted to share it with you.

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I couldn’t afford a softbox for my documentary interviews, so I made one from cardboard, tissue paper, some foil, paint and cheap supplies from Home Depot.

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I felt like including this for no particular reason…this is a piece by Honore Daumier. And it makes me laugh. It’s called “Le Defenseur” and that facial expression on this woman…c’mon. Look at dat sly little face and tell me it’s not hilarious. 

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This is Kitty Outdoors indoors looking adorable.
Alright.
Carry on. 

 

Act Natural

Today I dropped off my pieces for Art Hop, which is in three days. 

It was cool walking into the art house and seeing a lot of pieces from other artists laying against walls and on tables. 

I was struck with a feeling of inferiority. Every artist being featured is so much more experienced than I am (I’ve hardly been painting 5 months.) And their able to show these profound depths of their imaginations very vividly. It’s striking. And I felt silly, standing waiting for my turn to register my pieces. Everyone else around me has obviously superior talent and they looked comfortable. Relaxed. They looked like they belonged. They even dressed like you’d expect artsy creative people to dress. And I could feel very clearly that my demeanor and the canvases I held made me stick out.

What pleasantly surprised me was I was treated with kindness and patience. It didn’t occur to me until I interacted with a couple of them that they might be thinking about when they were at the stage I’m at now. That they might not see me as inferior.

I’m just impatient to step up to the level where I belong. Seeing the pieces I did today inspired me and started up a new drive to get to a new place mentally where I can be on par with the ‘grown up’ artists.

I’m excited.