Have you ever had something happen to you that resulted in making you
look back at what you've done in life only to go "Shit! I
haven't done anything at all with my life!"?
For most
of my classes, the first critics are happening around this time. They
have been all generally casual. For some, these critiques are a way to
measure out where everyone is in theirartistic practice. For me, it is
a chance to see what I did wrong and if I can improve on that without
growing more and more frustrated to the point where I want to quit.
Unfortunately, that's not happening.
Right
now, I feel as if what I do artistically is not up to the standards set
by those with more time, more money, and generally with more lifeexperience. It makes me want to curl up into a ball, suck my thumb, and go to sleep indefinitely
. Or at least for an indeterminate amount of time to which when I awake
all my problems will be dead and done with. But, alas, such is not the
case with reality. One has to face one's insecurities with the gusto of
a fat man at an All-You-Can-Eat salad buffet.
It is times like
these I wish I could just drop what I'm doing and continue being a
grunt for some corporation like I am now. But a degree, no matter if
you use it or not, is more important than if you don't have one at all.
It gives the holder some kind of social respect, even if it isn't much
given my field of study. And yet I still wish I could just once blow
everyone, including myself, away with something I produced.
The ego strokings
I got at the two shows I've done so far are nothing more but feel-good
food. I need something that will give me whatever filling feeling you
get after a nice and hearty meal. Only without the gas.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Now I know why people think I'm a girl.
| http://www.myheritage.com |
Monday, January 22, 2007
Typed in Code
I was told that "James" was equal to Matthew Rush. then again, I was told that Chance was a clone of "Bill." However, if said equivalency is true, then given the variable of my own, I am only able to fit the head. Of course, this is conclusion is steeped in bias due to the lack of a comparable variable as well as the room of error in said process in which comparison was made. Namely, the classic ideological battle between synthetic and authentic.
Have no clue what I'm talking about? Then you haven't been paying attention to my blog very carefully, have you?
Have no clue what I'm talking about? Then you haven't been paying attention to my blog very carefully, have you?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Sex Drive
I had a dream about driving. Or at least I think it was. It was a short scene where as I was getting into the driver's seat and starting the car, I found myself in the passenger seat as the engine was warming up. We then went somewhere new, a place out in the middle of nowhere. We were moving again, away from Tennessee.
However, in every scene of my dream, I was haunted by the image of a very lean, very attractive Asian boy. He wore no shirt and was built like Bruce Lee during his prime. My subconscious gave him no name, only a hint that he was connected to me in some manner that wasn't sexual but yet something I desired.
I clearly have a subconscious desire to become fit and attractive even though I gave up on that goal years ago. The want to move is also still very apparent in my mind. But why am I starting the car in the driver's seat only to end up suddenly in the passenger's seat?
However, in every scene of my dream, I was haunted by the image of a very lean, very attractive Asian boy. He wore no shirt and was built like Bruce Lee during his prime. My subconscious gave him no name, only a hint that he was connected to me in some manner that wasn't sexual but yet something I desired.
I clearly have a subconscious desire to become fit and attractive even though I gave up on that goal years ago. The want to move is also still very apparent in my mind. But why am I starting the car in the driver's seat only to end up suddenly in the passenger's seat?
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Tough Luck in Lustful Angst
The old cliche about how the most hurtful things are said by those that care the most about you has never really be a part of my life. I doubt it is a part of any one's life, to be honest. But it had to have been at one point in time, or else it wouldn't be a cliche.
This isn't the same as tough love, which has been perverted in one fashion or another. The cliche doesn't involve beatings that may or may not come with the undercutting verbal assault. In fact, it doesn't involve the undercutting dialogue either.
To truly tell someone something extremely hurtful and yet come across as if you sincerely care about them is an art form in itself. It involves selecting your words carefully so that they not only cut deep but initiate something positive. How many hurtful things can you say that won't have the opposite effect? Several, actually, having been on that side of the fence more often than the other.
However, that's the problem. Anything anyone says to me, no matter how close they are to me, doesn't initiate that fire to do something positive. It only opens the flood gates of negative thought. And as much as people want me to change that, those few that know me for a long enough time, I can't.
My first project for my Advance Seminar class was to think of a time when I was little and determine what was the most important thing to me at that age. Unfortunately for me, that time frame for me was the start of a lot of angst and trauma. All of which I cannot properly represent visually unless someone deconstructs it to the extreme. And I'm talking about reading layers into layers of what is ultimately a very simple visual piece to the point of being the butt of yet another joke about how hoidy-toidy and exclusive the art circle is.
My instructor mentioned in a round about kind of way that what happened then is probably important now because it helped define who I am. Which leads to yet another problem involving personal identity. In a society of labels and social circles being the driving force behind, well, pretty much everything, it is difficult for someone like me to see myself.
These days, the mirror keeps getting cloudy. What little I have to go on is based on what little pieces of crap I stick around the mirror. I like Disney at my age, both the good and the bad; I am a casual gamer thanks to TellTale Games and Sam & Max; I listen to music of all kinds with various levels of appreciation; I apparently can write very well; I work at a movie theatre surrounded by crazy elderly people that are similar to how my aunt is, as well as your run-of-the-mill teenager who is looking for some cash or job experience for whatever reason; I suffer from severe bouts of depression even though I was never officially diagnosed as such. And the list goes on and on in a very strange and yet colorful fashion of polarizing opposites.
This myriad of mixed-up-mashed-up characteristics does have one thing in common keeping them together. Most of my interests all are solitary in nature.
I mention this for one reason and one reason only. In order for me, as well as anyone really, to have any kind of initiative to do anything, there has to be an interest or a reason behind it. Reason, for me at least, has not been a part of what I do in most of the cases. The same cannot be said about interest. If I'm interested more in something, I will have more of an initiative to do that instead. Priority preference. There is no reason behind it.
Unfortunately, I'm slowly finding out that when one gives in to personal priority instead of logical reasoning given certain situations, one doesn't help one's self from getting anywhere. The circle comes back around and around again, and I find myself once again visiting my time share here at Rock Bottom. All because of the artistic ways someone undercut my lack of initiative, and therefore by association my lack of interest, in bettering myself by learning how to drive.
This isn't the same as tough love, which has been perverted in one fashion or another. The cliche doesn't involve beatings that may or may not come with the undercutting verbal assault. In fact, it doesn't involve the undercutting dialogue either.
To truly tell someone something extremely hurtful and yet come across as if you sincerely care about them is an art form in itself. It involves selecting your words carefully so that they not only cut deep but initiate something positive. How many hurtful things can you say that won't have the opposite effect? Several, actually, having been on that side of the fence more often than the other.
However, that's the problem. Anything anyone says to me, no matter how close they are to me, doesn't initiate that fire to do something positive. It only opens the flood gates of negative thought. And as much as people want me to change that, those few that know me for a long enough time, I can't.
My first project for my Advance Seminar class was to think of a time when I was little and determine what was the most important thing to me at that age. Unfortunately for me, that time frame for me was the start of a lot of angst and trauma. All of which I cannot properly represent visually unless someone deconstructs it to the extreme. And I'm talking about reading layers into layers of what is ultimately a very simple visual piece to the point of being the butt of yet another joke about how hoidy-toidy and exclusive the art circle is.
My instructor mentioned in a round about kind of way that what happened then is probably important now because it helped define who I am. Which leads to yet another problem involving personal identity. In a society of labels and social circles being the driving force behind, well, pretty much everything, it is difficult for someone like me to see myself.
These days, the mirror keeps getting cloudy. What little I have to go on is based on what little pieces of crap I stick around the mirror. I like Disney at my age, both the good and the bad; I am a casual gamer thanks to TellTale Games and Sam & Max; I listen to music of all kinds with various levels of appreciation; I apparently can write very well; I work at a movie theatre surrounded by crazy elderly people that are similar to how my aunt is, as well as your run-of-the-mill teenager who is looking for some cash or job experience for whatever reason; I suffer from severe bouts of depression even though I was never officially diagnosed as such. And the list goes on and on in a very strange and yet colorful fashion of polarizing opposites.
This myriad of mixed-up-mashed-up characteristics does have one thing in common keeping them together. Most of my interests all are solitary in nature.
I mention this for one reason and one reason only. In order for me, as well as anyone really, to have any kind of initiative to do anything, there has to be an interest or a reason behind it. Reason, for me at least, has not been a part of what I do in most of the cases. The same cannot be said about interest. If I'm interested more in something, I will have more of an initiative to do that instead. Priority preference. There is no reason behind it.
Unfortunately, I'm slowly finding out that when one gives in to personal priority instead of logical reasoning given certain situations, one doesn't help one's self from getting anywhere. The circle comes back around and around again, and I find myself once again visiting my time share here at Rock Bottom. All because of the artistic ways someone undercut my lack of initiative, and therefore by association my lack of interest, in bettering myself by learning how to drive.
Initiative Difficulties
It is getting more and more difficult for me to get up in the morning. It's even more difficult for me to do something as simple as get school supplies. What sucks even more is that the lack of any kind of initiative to do anything short of getting up is still there.
I know I'm burned out from the semesters before. I know that my ability to create with a level of critical thinking required for each of my classes is in serious need of recharging.
Maybe if and when I finally snap or fail out of my classes. That will get the message across, because my parents are obviously not listening to me when I tell them this. And it's already been established that as long as they are paying for half of my education, I'm pretty much their bitch.
I know I'm burned out from the semesters before. I know that my ability to create with a level of critical thinking required for each of my classes is in serious need of recharging.
Maybe if and when I finally snap or fail out of my classes. That will get the message across, because my parents are obviously not listening to me when I tell them this. And it's already been established that as long as they are paying for half of my education, I'm pretty much their bitch.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Not a Good Sign
I woke up just awhile ago suffering from a stress-induced headache. It is only the first week of classes, and already I have too much to do and no want to do any of them. As interesting as each of the projects I have, I only want to concentrate on my fireworks project.
Now more than ever, I need time off from school to just recharge my creativity. But as long as my parents are paying for half of the tuition, I won't be able to. We will see how long I can endure before I snap and call that hot line number they give us in every syllabus.
Now more than ever, I need time off from school to just recharge my creativity. But as long as my parents are paying for half of the tuition, I won't be able to. We will see how long I can endure before I snap and call that hot line number they give us in every syllabus.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Dreams of the Imaginary
I had a dream last night. And even though it involved the usual sexual repression angst as well as images from the past that were being sorted out by my subconscious (which ended up producing a very strange concept of a Gay Nudist Bar), the more memorable aspect of the dream had to go to one part that lasted not even a minute of dream time.
There was a scene, a strangely casual conversation really, involving me and a shirtless young blond whom I perceived to be none other than Bill. Not Clinton, but the one from several years back who may or may not exist. As much of a mistake this may be, I have no qualms about saying that "Bill" was said to be the youngest of the Kennedy boys (as in PRESIDENT Kennedy) from this current generation. Now the "Bill" I interacted with over the Internet was, by all accounts, a fun-loving yet rude ass of a boy who eventually began grooming himself for the White House. The "Bill" in my dream was nothing like him. If anything, he was nice, shy, and socially reserved as if he never talked to anyone normal in his life. Or at the very least outside of this social circle.
Why this part sticks out the most, even more so than the Gay Nudist Bar? I've been questioning their legitimacy for a while. At this point, all signs are pointing that they are not real. They never were real. I was just a part of Dan's elaborate plot to get his fuck on with someone who may or may not help clean up around the house if not use the house as a stepping stone to get away from whatever else that was possibly worse than they could think of. If that makes any sane sense to you as a reader.
The stupid thing is, I willingly became a part of this. Meaning, those of you reading this that are angry and should suggest I seek legal action four or five years after this has happened are just going to have to deal with this simple fact. I can't claim anything because I willingly went along with this deal knowing full well what was going on.
Anyway, since having that dream, I've been debating on seeing if AIM still has my old screen name I used to talk to them/him/whoever and contact them. Finally confronting them and telling them all this. But, truth be know, if they are real, they've forgotten about me. I don't even know how long it's been since I last contacted them, but I know that people tend to forget people whom they have no attachment to.
And I tend to be one of those forgettable people unless I leave a nice first impression on folks. That's how my managers remembered me after four months and several employee firings.
There was a scene, a strangely casual conversation really, involving me and a shirtless young blond whom I perceived to be none other than Bill. Not Clinton, but the one from several years back who may or may not exist. As much of a mistake this may be, I have no qualms about saying that "Bill" was said to be the youngest of the Kennedy boys (as in PRESIDENT Kennedy) from this current generation. Now the "Bill" I interacted with over the Internet was, by all accounts, a fun-loving yet rude ass of a boy who eventually began grooming himself for the White House. The "Bill" in my dream was nothing like him. If anything, he was nice, shy, and socially reserved as if he never talked to anyone normal in his life. Or at the very least outside of this social circle.
Why this part sticks out the most, even more so than the Gay Nudist Bar? I've been questioning their legitimacy for a while. At this point, all signs are pointing that they are not real. They never were real. I was just a part of Dan's elaborate plot to get his fuck on with someone who may or may not help clean up around the house if not use the house as a stepping stone to get away from whatever else that was possibly worse than they could think of. If that makes any sane sense to you as a reader.
The stupid thing is, I willingly became a part of this. Meaning, those of you reading this that are angry and should suggest I seek legal action four or five years after this has happened are just going to have to deal with this simple fact. I can't claim anything because I willingly went along with this deal knowing full well what was going on.
Anyway, since having that dream, I've been debating on seeing if AIM still has my old screen name I used to talk to them/him/whoever and contact them. Finally confronting them and telling them all this. But, truth be know, if they are real, they've forgotten about me. I don't even know how long it's been since I last contacted them, but I know that people tend to forget people whom they have no attachment to.
And I tend to be one of those forgettable people unless I leave a nice first impression on folks. That's how my managers remembered me after four months and several employee firings.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Between States
For the last several days, I've been caught in a very awkward spot.
I'm reading a driver's manual that is obviously aimed at teenagers with an eight-grade reading level. I placed and received my second order of adult contraband (at least in this state) but have yet to use two-thirds of them. I'm having several seemingly random thoughts involving people in my past who may not even exist.
And to escape all this, I turn to the Internet and cyber-pyrotechnics. I should be organizing my thoughts and feelings, writing them down, and publishing them for the world to see. Instead, I obsess over keeping track of trivial messages and the aesthetics of a cheap version of particle animations done by Pixar.
It's a hopeless feeling that I have right now. I want to connect with someone on some kind of emotional understanding, but when I do, I get clingy and co-dependent. Insecurities mount and before you know it, I'm six years old again looking for my mom in the mega-mall during the holiday shopping season. And when that happens, I end up pushing people away, mostly out of frustration for one reason or another. And then I find myself alone again.
What I wouldn't give for another one of those "You're coming with me and there's nothing you can say or do to get yourself out of it" moments like when Jason took me to a gay bar. Something, anything to force me to live in a way that I cannot force myself to do. I mean, even now, I'm typing this when I should be committing that driver's manual to memory or face a life totally dependent on public transit in the area of the country where they rip people off just for calling a cab to take them to the airport. I'm brooding when I should be preparing.
Yet, once again, I find that I cannot get my fat ass out of this chair to do what must be done.
I lack initiative in the things that matter. I had to force myself to get out and look for a job, and now I am going to have to force myself to learn how to drive in my mid-20's. And believe me, the former was easier than the latter of the two is right now.
And yet I don't lack any initiative in sitting down and producing fireworks in my video game. Cleaning my room wasn't ever as difficult as getting up and realizing that you have to study something you don't want. Of course I've put off both until the worse possibly moment, but still.
Growing up this late in the game is difficult. Especially for someone like me who is stuck between two different worlds of thinking.
I'm reading a driver's manual that is obviously aimed at teenagers with an eight-grade reading level. I placed and received my second order of adult contraband (at least in this state) but have yet to use two-thirds of them. I'm having several seemingly random thoughts involving people in my past who may not even exist.
And to escape all this, I turn to the Internet and cyber-pyrotechnics. I should be organizing my thoughts and feelings, writing them down, and publishing them for the world to see. Instead, I obsess over keeping track of trivial messages and the aesthetics of a cheap version of particle animations done by Pixar.
It's a hopeless feeling that I have right now. I want to connect with someone on some kind of emotional understanding, but when I do, I get clingy and co-dependent. Insecurities mount and before you know it, I'm six years old again looking for my mom in the mega-mall during the holiday shopping season. And when that happens, I end up pushing people away, mostly out of frustration for one reason or another. And then I find myself alone again.
What I wouldn't give for another one of those "You're coming with me and there's nothing you can say or do to get yourself out of it" moments like when Jason took me to a gay bar. Something, anything to force me to live in a way that I cannot force myself to do. I mean, even now, I'm typing this when I should be committing that driver's manual to memory or face a life totally dependent on public transit in the area of the country where they rip people off just for calling a cab to take them to the airport. I'm brooding when I should be preparing.
Yet, once again, I find that I cannot get my fat ass out of this chair to do what must be done.
I lack initiative in the things that matter. I had to force myself to get out and look for a job, and now I am going to have to force myself to learn how to drive in my mid-20's. And believe me, the former was easier than the latter of the two is right now.
And yet I don't lack any initiative in sitting down and producing fireworks in my video game. Cleaning my room wasn't ever as difficult as getting up and realizing that you have to study something you don't want. Of course I've put off both until the worse possibly moment, but still.
Growing up this late in the game is difficult. Especially for someone like me who is stuck between two different worlds of thinking.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Clean Start
It seems to be slowly becoming a tradition, as this is the second year in a row I've done this.
Around this time last year, I cleaned my room, mostly to get all the junk I collected out of the way or into the trash. This year, I did the same thing, freeing up more floor space than I thought I actually had.
The strange thing is, cleaning up such a huge mess that took a year to make was really easy. The hard part was getting started. After I got over that hurdle, I was able to get everything in order before dinner. Granted it took me two days just to do the immediate area of my room where everyone can watch movies on the out-of-date home theatre system, but still. If you saw the mess that was there before, it's quite a nice change.
This time around, I decided to include the computer. As you may recall, the last one crashed. When they opened it over at Best Buy, there was so much dust on most of the parts, it looked like the lint trap from your average dryer. I didn't want to have that happen again.
You would think going since August without even dusting the outside of the machine would result in the same mess. Apparently, there is a new design being introduced to maintain the inner workings of the computers while preventing dust build up. I was very surprised to find no dust on any part of the interior of the CPU. Which is strange given how much dust has collected on the outside of the tower. And on the printer, and the external hard dive shell I bought, and the power battery back-up unit...
At this rate, I'll end up becoming a neat freak like my mom. And we can't have that being an artist, right? Oh, wait, my more powerful stuff as an artist involves technology in one respect or another. Maybe I should be a little neater around the computer station.
Around this time last year, I cleaned my room, mostly to get all the junk I collected out of the way or into the trash. This year, I did the same thing, freeing up more floor space than I thought I actually had.
The strange thing is, cleaning up such a huge mess that took a year to make was really easy. The hard part was getting started. After I got over that hurdle, I was able to get everything in order before dinner. Granted it took me two days just to do the immediate area of my room where everyone can watch movies on the out-of-date home theatre system, but still. If you saw the mess that was there before, it's quite a nice change.
This time around, I decided to include the computer. As you may recall, the last one crashed. When they opened it over at Best Buy, there was so much dust on most of the parts, it looked like the lint trap from your average dryer. I didn't want to have that happen again.
You would think going since August without even dusting the outside of the machine would result in the same mess. Apparently, there is a new design being introduced to maintain the inner workings of the computers while preventing dust build up. I was very surprised to find no dust on any part of the interior of the CPU. Which is strange given how much dust has collected on the outside of the tower. And on the printer, and the external hard dive shell I bought, and the power battery back-up unit...
At this rate, I'll end up becoming a neat freak like my mom. And we can't have that being an artist, right? Oh, wait, my more powerful stuff as an artist involves technology in one respect or another. Maybe I should be a little neater around the computer station.
