I fell off the bandwagon with all my projects, and I've started to get back on track with the self portraits, and I cling to Illustration Friday, doing that when the topic really gives me a good idea. I'm even working on a book. It certainly hasn't gotten done in a day, but it's a bigger book, with lots of signatures, and hand binding and such. But because I dropped the ball with all those things, some part of me felt guilty, and like I had nothing to blog about, and like I couldn't blog because I had nothing to report. Not that I have a plethora of readers (plethora of piñatas) or, for that matter, anything very interesting to say even when I'm on top of all my projects. (How many cliche phrases about (not) getting things done can I use in one paragraph?)And worst of all, I'm feeling easily distractable tonight.
I've been in an odd place lately, one of those holes I occasionally stumble into. I sit in the hole for awhile, studying the roots and smelling the dirt, poking at worms with a small stick, and generally feeling sorry for myself. And then I stand up, dust off my butt, and look for the way out. This afternoon I think I started to make my way out. I sang along really loudly in the car. That's always a good sign.
Something I realize about myself: I'm very good at getting into ruts. Perpetuating things. Usually the things you don't want to perpetuate: like eating entire boxes of girl scout cookies, or not going to the gym, or giving up all the projects you started to keep yourself in a creative mindset. I've tried to get myself into a rut for the good things, like going to the gym, eating healthy, dying my hair and washing my face, flossing, taking vitamins. And I usually last a short while, but then it's like I run out of energy and I just can't do it anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to school and get an art degree. I really want to learn how to make paper and I am dying to try out printmaking. I feel like there are all these things I want to do. And for so long I've been saying I wanted to write, and yet, I haven't written, and I don't write, and I always feel like a sham when I say it now because getting me to write is a little like trying to get a 4-year-old to clean up her room. She stomps her foot and says no. And then her mom yells at her and drags her to her room. And because she has no choice in the matter, she does it. I want to blame that on my job. I really do. I want to talk about how I spend 8 hours a day writing, or at least editing, and how that makes me too tired to come home and write for myself. How picking up a pen or putting my fingers on homerow just makes me feel exhausted. That after all the drudgery, I can't stand the sight of a blank Word document, an empty page. But I'm not sure it would be true. There's a quote that says something like "writing is harder for writers." I believe that. But doesn't that mean that you keep trying even though it's hard? Because right now, I'm not even trying.
And then I think about my thesis, and this degree I'm getting, and that in two years, I'm supposed to have written enough poetry to fill a book.
And that leads to the bigger question: Then what? After I graduate and they declare me a Master of Fine Arts, what on earth am I going to do with myself?
I'm turning 25 in a couple weeks. It hasn't really seemed to affect me. I pretty much like birthdays, and I always joke that I'm really an 80-year-old on the inside, and that you're not old till your 100. But maybe it is getting to me. I'm blaming it on the five. There is something about the number five that I just do not trust. There's something about five that looks at you with a sneer and says, quite mockingly, "You really should have figured out at least some of this by now, you dolt." There's something about five that makes you feel three feet tall again, food-stained and chastised for your latest misadventure. Five knows something you do not know and refuses to tell you.
And yet, is there a better time to turn 25? I just lived through an historic election. I have a good man who loves me. I have a job I think is a good job on most days. I'm in graduate school. The economy may be going down the tubes, but I don't have enough money to notice. I have two ridiculous but entertaining felines. I'm on my own and, ostensibly, doing what I want, what I'm supposed to be doing. Doing it right, more or less. But it doesn't always feel that way.
(And I know you're sitting there reading this thinking, "why won't she talk to me about it." I know you, and I know that's what's running through your mind. Even up here in Baltimore I can hear your mind churning away. But you gave me an invitation to get it out, and I took it, and it's been cathartic, and I thank you for that. And I will talk to you about it, but right now, I still don't have the energy to talk at all. To anyone. About anything.)
I miss the days when I could lose myself in a book and nothing else would matter. The days when I didn't have to get up and go to work everyday. The days when being chubby was cute. The days when I didn't have to worry about cleaning my apartment or paying my bills. The days when I had someone to drive me everywhere. The days when I could run through the house and right to my mom when I was unhappy about something.
But I want to end this on a semi-positive note. It's almost the weekend, and I have big plans for photowalking and reading and painting and drawing and laziness and activity. I plan to indulge. Without spending money. And I'm looking forward to it. So although something's got me down (Five, I see you there, with that snide look on your face), things are looking up.
