Lost in the Art World

It's post-Mid-term season, and with three high-level studio classes going on at once, I can't help but feel I have lost my artistic direction. The bitter taste of knowing my Seminar thesis paper could be better still lingers as I try to figure out my personal politics for a Public Art Class assignment I seriously could care less about due to my indifference in current political issues like global warming. Then you have the fact that my current exploration in cartoon aesthetics seems to be turning away from taboos and more towards images that I just want to produce to satisfy my own personal entertainment and quirks.

It's funny how once you know where you want to go, you end up losing your way if you don't stick to the beaten path. All these other assignments that I couldn't filter into Seminar seem to have caused a creative block.

And the funny part is I don't really care. It's not that big of a problem to me.

There's something about having a lap dog actually falling asleep on your lap that makes even the biggest problem seem like a minor annoyance. I kind of wish Skippy was like this all the time, but this is the first in what could be a very rare thing with him.

Art in Academia

I know I've made this complaint before, but I can't find it on my blog. Then again, this entire journal is riddled with reoccurring themes, complaints, issues, and dirty laundry that refuses to stay clean.

I'm at the point in my art where I should be thinking critically about what I'm producing. I should be looking up things and forming a paper that will defend my creations as art more so than a mere hobby with good skills. It's a nice opportunity for me to "nerd out" and put all that useless trivia that has been piling up to good use.

But I have too many other things that need to get done at the same time. And I'm too tired to think properly.

Right now should also be my Fall Break, which amounts to only one day by my schedule. The way the break is set up is that it starts on Thursday and goes through the weekend. Because I have no classes on Friday, this ultimately means I only have one day off. And even then, I technically don't have a break.

It seems ironic if not bitter sweet that I'm typing this while on a break from working in wax a piece that will be casted in bronze. As exciting as that is, the entire assignment to me now lost its luster. (No pun intended, for those of you that caught that.) Bouncing ideas off people, the teacher, and thinking over the design of the objects has turned the piece into something I feel no emotional connection with. Why? It's all for the sake of academics.

Call me ignorant, but art in the world of academia seems like it should be kept strictly to movements, understanding theories, notable artists, and the like. When actually producing it, academia should be an observer and nothing more. Then, when the piece is completed or even when it reaches a point where all it needs is some TLC and polish, academia can come in and say "Okay, this is what the piece is about and here is what it is referencing." That's how I'm going about with the class I mentioned at the beginning of this entry.

Instead, I'm in a very strange place where left is down and up is out and inside is the fourth dimension times the quantity of the astronomical unit between here and the Horse Head Nebula. Combine this with the continuing exhaustion, unrealistic deadlines that have to be met or face failure, and an ever growing need to just strangle the world for disagreeing with me, one has to wonder why I haven't killed myself yet.

If I'm allowed to inflate my own ego, the only noble part of this whole mess is the fact that my mind is willing to go on despite the body clearly indicating that I need to relax, cut down on the caffeine, and catch up on my sleep. Maybe over Christmas... in between my shifts at the theatre, that is.

Puppy Problems

If there ever was a sign that I'm not responsible enough to have a pet, it's the fact that my priorities are so out of whacked to the point where I can't even tell when my dog wants to go to the bathroom.

Several times today, I either ignored or didn't noticed Skippy's tell tale sign that he needs to go to the bathroom (runs and looks at the door). And each time, I've had to clean up his piddle.

And each time, what was I doing? Escaping reality by playing an online video game that was more important at the time than making sure my dog went potty outside the house.

I'm more disappointed in myself than I am at the dog not making it a more clear sign that he needs to go. He is, technically, still a puppy, but he also inherited the Jack Russell bark from his dad according to the medical papers. He could have barked to get my attention, but I guess he rather use that to warn off strangers than to tell his owner, who is suppose to be the responsible one, that he needs to potty.

Skippy may be housebroken, but I'm definitely not dog broken.

Vacations? What's that?

It's no secret that vacations, be them the kind that are needed or the kind that are obligatory for religious or governmental reasons, are too short for most people. You never hear anyone say that their vacation lasted too long and they wanted to get back to work. Well, almost.

It's also no secret that I've been under a lot of stress lately. Most of which personally induced to the point where I'm still not feeling any better than I was before I caught those "back to school" flu bugs. If anyone needed a vacation (or needed to get laid, period), it's been me for the last month and a half.

With the stress mounting to the point where dropping out of the semester (not out of college as a whole) was the most beneficial choice I could make, it became clear that not even taking care of dog would help my problems go away. So, for my sister's birthday weekend, I went along, despite having a work load that, while manageable, I knew I wouldn't do while I was out of the state.

I've said it once and I'll say it again: What's the point of going on vacation if you're going to bring work with you?

The weekend was nice, I'll admit that much. We stayed in a cabin with a view because no hotel within my sister's campus would allow dogs. We didn't do anything but enjoy the view, the company of the dogs, and watching a few movies that were available to buy at the bargain bin. It was the stuff that all three-day weekends should be.

But the moment we got back home to Tennessee? It was like God set the reset button.

Skippy was over-stimulated and ate out of both his and Lucky's bowl. He then proceeded to throw up on the couch. I tried to clean it, but even touching it with a pair of rubber gloves made me want to vomit myself. Needless to say, didn't get any sympathy from anyone. Instead I got a response I never liked hearing.

I've probably said this once before on here, but my laziness is preventing me from doing a site search on Google to find out. I don't like being told to just shut the fuck up and get over it. In so many polite words, that was what I was told to do with Skippy's half-eaten regurgitation. That's great if you can do it. More power to you, but do you really expect someone who isn't like you to be able to do the same things as yourself in these kind of matters where you can get over things like nothing happened? No! And to do so is asking too much of the person. Some people have to have a process in order to get over anything. We don't instantly learn things like how to deal with a break up or how to get over your low gag-reflex tolerance. For some of us, it takes a lot of time, but even then we may not be able to get over what everyone says we should.

And yet, I have a history of people telling me this. Just shut up and get over yourself and do it. I don't like hearing this, but I also don't like the fact that I can't do it like some kind of light switch.

The moral of the story? Vacations don't help.

Skippy

After about four days of having Lucky around, it became increasingly clear that I was growing too attached to the little guy. My parents decided to step in and get another dog. Not just any dog, however. They got Lucky's brother, Skippy.

Now, I know you're probably getting all these nice warm fuzzy feelings about how kind both my parents are for not only thinking of me (finally) and being kind enough to seek out and adopt Lucky's brother. But before that feel-good feeling takes over you entirely, there's something you should know first.

Skip has been experiencing several major health problems.

When he was adopted, the Humane Society recommended that he be taken home immediately. He was suffering from what is known as Kennel Kough. Basically, it's similar to the Kindergarten Flu. You put a lot of dogs in one place, one of them comes in sick, and then the whole building is sneezing and coughing like crazy. Some dogs are better resistant to it, some are not.

Because of how highly contagious he was, we had to separate Skip and Lucky from each other until they got better. Over that time, we noticed more problems coming up. Skippy seems to have a bum leg sometimes, to which we are not sure what it may or may not be. Because he is sick, the vet cannot determine if it is a side effect from the virus he has or if he may have canine arthritis. He's only a year old, but that's still young enough to get it in dogs.

To complicate things even more, we've been doing a lot of back and forth between the quarantine area of my room where Skippy is and the "clean" zone where Lucky is. Lucky evidently caught something from this, but it's minor compared to how bad it was when we first brought Skippy home.

Recently, we were able to get Skippy healthy enough to reintroduce him to his brother. Apparently, three weeks apart is enough time for kin to become strangers. All this morning, there has been growling and nipping at tuffs of fur as Lucky is trying to reclaim his territory of the living room as well as our affection and general attention towards him. Skip will growl back, but it is in defence. Lucky wants to be the alpha. We're going to have to fix that, because we thought the two of them would get along better. They are brothers.

For now, we are keeping an eye on them and only interfering when needed. Lucky is learning how to share the hard way by being shooed off from areas of the living room Skippy wants to sit or lay down on, and I'm keeping an eye on Skippy's walking ability to make sure it has nothing to do with canine arthritis.

As much as I love these little guys, this is just complicating my life more so than I need right now. But, for what it is worth, whenever I'm with either of these mixed mutts, I'm able to forget about my problems. That is until they start exhibiting their own problems that sends me into a worried state similar to that of a mother who lost her child in the playground.