Have you ever had that feeling like you know you just made a mistake but you're not sure as to what it is? And no matter how many times you run the scenario over in your head and feel that you did the right thing, it still feels wrong?
Is it paranoia or just general anxiety?
The reason I ask is because I just got back from dropping off my images to be framed. The price quote I was given over the phone was more attractive than what I actually paid due to a difference in frame thickness. I choose one that was more stable for the length, but was also thicker. Comparing the two in the shop, neither one would be distracting to the piece, but the cheaper one would suffer from bowing during transit.
I keep replaying the scenario over in my head while staring at the second largest purchase I've made in my life (the first going to the MacBook). I feel I chose correctly given all the factors.
So why do I feel so sick to my stomach that I'm not sure if I can eat anything tonight?
Expressing honest thoughts to everyone and no one at the same time.
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4 comments:
Hey Jon,
If you go to the Art Store, they'll let you order the size frame by itself without the glass or the matt. Then you can purchase a matt board and cut it at school. And Home Depot will cut glass to the size you need for a very small price. When you buy the raw materials separately and do it yourself, you can save hundreds of dollars on framing, sometimes thousands. Seriously, it's less than a fourth of the price you paid.
Talking to your instructors more often will curb some of these issues as you're getting your show together. That's why they're there.
I had read of it
but once saw paranoia --
you do not have it.
Hey Robert,
Here's a humorous and timely haiku for you:
What are the odds that
at Five Fifty Eight PM
we both leave comments?
Jason
Jason,
I couldn't resist although this has a not so subtle reference to earlier comments:
Chance will light two fools
to time's same last syllable
even when they creep.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28
I love your haiku, the occasi-ku type I call them.
Robert
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