L.B. is standing in the middle of the room staring morosely at the wall. I am trying to get dressed.
Finally, after some minutes of navigating: “L.B., what’s up, why are you standing in the middle of the room in this woebegone manner?”
L.B.: “I can’t believe I spelled usually with two s’s in that picture i sent you over break.”
Lesson to artists everywhere: your loved ones do not care about minor orthographic errors.
I’ve been carrying around a sketchbook on art kid Michelle’s advice and drawing in it whenever I get that drawing yen. All of a sudden, drawing has become an activity I can do at times other than when I’m on the phone or when I’m trapped in a room with only the margins of a newspaper and a ball point pen for company. And it’s coming along. I mean, it really is coming along nicely.
I’ve managed to convince a few people here that I’m an art kid myself. God knows what they’ll do when they discover the truth.
I’ve been having a bit of a slump recently, what with being miserable and all, and I only just realized that the problem is probably that I haven’t read anything real in about two months.
This weekend, when we spend 14 hours driving to Ithaca and back, I’m going to bring Negotiating with the Dead and Song of Solomon and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and no notebook at all, and hopefully I’ll come back all bubbly and brimming over again.
The poem I’m writing is now three and a half pages long, and says exactly what I want to say. Wicked wicked, m i rite? :D
Last winter was about Hemingway, violins, vibrato, painting at Carl’s, making crazy food objects.
This winter is about Pynchon, jazz, alt-rap, illustrating, making crazy poem objects, and writing writing writing. If I can’t spew out stupid solipsistic fiction in my senior year of high school, when the hell can I?
But – shhhhh – some of it is actually pretty ok.
Don’t get me wrong- I’m not saying I want to act of creation to be better than drugs or anything (cough cough). It’s just that I’ve taken EIGHT DAYS OFF from NaNoWriMo out of sheer despair, and as of this minute I’m declaring that nonsense over with. As I head upstairs to embark on a three hour sprint, here is my goal: I am going to churn out five thousand words, and then I’m going to go back and reread them, and I’m going to give myself a round of applause. Because goddamn it, I can write… that is, if I can stop bludgeoning myself long enough to get a word in edgewise.