An excerpt, from a recent journal entry:
What I was so fucked over I'm wise enough not to investigate in the preceding pages. But I do know this is not the only time I've ended what should be a self-clarifying and illuminating journal entry in a series of expletives that serve more to emphasize my increased confusion rather than a sudden "aha!" moment at the end of a good think. An activity I could similarly have enacted in large scale all over my own face this afternoon, when I ingested large quantities of my recent purchase, Blogging For Creatives.
It's a fantastic book, no doubt. I may even email the author with a virtual high five and a "thanks!" and a tiny "fuck!" scribbled in the corner for good measure. But I'm pretty sure my brain does not have the capacity for that much information at one time. Rather than lift the rock I feel myself hidden under in this project I've embarked upon called "blogging;" I'm fairly sure I've discovered a hole big enough to hide my words and I until the aliens go all Jurassic Park on our asses some millennia to come. What the fuck, Internet. What the fuck, Al Gore. What the fuck, population of 7 billion.
A point that was solidified most cosmically this afternoon when I resubmitted my claim to Google Adsense and was swiftly kicked to the binary curb a mere two hours later. REALLY, GOOGLE? My CONTENT does not meet your PROGRAM CRITERIA? What do I need to do, show you my cleve in a fuzzy Instagram picture claiming to show off my mad sartorial skills? Don't worry. When I publish my first book of essays on surviving a month without clean underwear, I'll be sure NOT to mention you in the credits.
It's moments like this--where I feel completely overwhelmed by what I am totally unsure of or don't know how to do--that I turn to that which I am comfortable. Case in point the paintings I've been working on recently. Painting is a realm in which I am comfortable, even when I want to rip the cloth into tiny shreds and light it on fire in the backyard. Painting is normal. Painting is fun. Painting is the light at the end.
Except when it's not.
A few months ago I let the desire to put brush to canvas dip so low that it became days and then weeks and then months before I ever motivated to do anything about it. You know how that goes? The longer you let something go the easier it is to continue not doing it. Like exercising. Hey Gaffigan--Law and Order really is sponsored by Nike!
I was talking to my scarapist a few weeks ago about it. And on the peak of the high that is psychiatric counseling, we both realized that it has been over a year since I last showed my work professionally. In like, a real gallery, and not just my living room or parent's basement. And then we both went "duh," I vowed to submit to a few upcoming shows, and the concept of being a visual artist went from dismally depressing to ecstatically exciting again. I had forgotten the key element in my process: the prospect of the work not being just an ego-stroking wall hanging, but a piece that invokes conversation and feedback from someone other than just Hank.
It's only when I slam my face against the pavement that I learn my lesson. I can't do anything entirely uncomfortable without resting in that which I'm already stable. And whoever is upstairs knows that I'm definitely not the stable one in this relationship. Just like I can't expect myself to keep painting if I know there's no one to tell me where I've fucked up and where I've struck gold, I can't expect myself to keep writing if I'm not extending my digital tentacles somewhere. Anywhere.
I submitted a few posts to a blog forum the other day. I also entered that giant red painting in an upcoming show. GASP. I don't know what will happen. I don't know if anything will happen. But I know it will help keep me going.
I also know that for whoever is reading out there, I really appreciate you. You're awesome. You make me giggle like a school girl buying her first thong. You also make me want to ask you to make it official. Will you like, subscribe to my blog? Maybe I'll let you see my fuzzy Instagram picture.
(And if you're wondering how to get in my pants, it's over there ---> in that little widgey thing. The one that says "follow" and stuff. Top right. Can't miss it. I might even check your box if you check mine. Have I become pathetic enough? God, I thought my days of begging for attention were over.)
Good night, Internets. Let's keep the spark alive.