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.

Little Lucky

See the little dog to the right? He's the newest member of the family. His name is Lucky, and while his medical records show him to be a mix of both small dogs and medium dogs, he's predominately a Papillon with the yelpy bark of Jack Russell. He's house-broken, neutered, and has had most of his shots. (We found out from the vet yesterday that he still needs a few more.) His personality is documented as friendly but shy, however our observation since we adopted him on Saturday have been very different. He's very much a homebody dog, likes to sleep most of the day away if there is someone in the house to keep him company, hates being alone even if the radio is left on, enjoys just following you anywhere you go, is a light and very picky eater, and right now probably depressed because he's been away from his older brother for a while now. He'll get over the depression given how much affection we are giving him between myself and Dad.

And that is where our problem is.

It only took three days, and I've become so attached to the little mutt to the point of my parental side kicking in. In fact, he's been my little distraction from school more so than anything I have mentioned before this post. It's gotten to the point where I can't help but spoil the little guy every chance I get even if it is just petting him on the head.

This may be seen as a good thing to most people. And I would agree that it is. I could use a pet like this that is easy to care for and wants nothing more but company in the same room it's in. A little responsibility could be a good thing for me and could gently push me into the right direction I need to go in so I can learn to drive, find a better job, and move out. In the last few days, Lucky has already made me feel better about myself in a way I can't really describe in words. Those of you that own a dog would probably be able to relate to this feeling and be better at describing it than myself.

But he's not my dog. I'm just taking care of him until my sister can come home to take care of him herself. This is her dog to replace Shadow, whom we are all still missing to some degree.

I don't know how the people at the Humane Society do it. They probably have pets of their own. Most of the workers if not all of them mentioned something about their own pets when we were looking at dogs to adopt. But I'm not them. I can't seem to get it into my head that this is my sister's dog given past history and not my own dog or the family dog.

It's been suggested because of my behavior as of late that maybe I should get a dog of my own. While a good idea, I don't know how well I would be able to handle that. I like Lucky's personality and the way he just sleeps in the middle of the hardwood floor where we photographed him. I like the fact that he doesn't really bark unless he doesn't get enough attention. I love the fact that he's house-broken! But what are the odds that I'll find another dog like him that is right for me? On top of that, I don't think I'm responsible enough to take care of a dog of my own, or any animal for that matter! The birds we own right now aren't really getting any mental stimulation from me and are probably going mad with boredom. I can only wonder what's going through Lucky's mind right now while I'm typing this. (He's just looking at me from across the room. I think he may need to go potty.) And yet, something this easy, something that doesn't ask very much from me in terms of supplying essential needs, may be very good for me and my mentality.

One of my co-workers over the summer said that there are many psychological cases where doctors have prescribed getting a pet for emotional support. These people can get away with bringing their dogs on places we normally can't for very understandable reasons. The last thing I want to happen on my next plane flight to wherever is for the person next to me to have a panic attack because they are unsure how their pet is doing down in the cargo bay. I should probably ask him or do some research on my own time (HA! Like I have any of that now...) about this and all the things that involve it. This could be very well something that I've needed for a long time.

Or it could be something else entirely. I don't like thinking that Lucky triggered some kind of parental drive in me, given how many crazy cat-ladies there are in the world that call them "her babies." But that's also a possibility of what's going on.

In the meantime, until I'm ready for a dog of my own, I'll be testing my own level of responsibility with Lucky while I take care of him. I'm currently trying to crate train him so that he doesn't run up to my parents' bedroom door asking to be let out in the middle of the night. Hopefully, Lucky will teach me something in process.

Stress Test

I'm (hopefully) recovering from what appeared to have been a stress-induced flu. Basically, the last month of deadlines and other things has caused my body to slowly come crumbling down like a building with bad maintenance. I made the mistake of going to school while under this, thinking all I needed was some down time and I would be fine. I ended up catching everything that everyone else had at the time forcing me to miss a class. The class that day was a major project due date, which meant by the syllabus, I missed two classes. And that's just the stress of the immediate moment.

This whole last month has been one painful ride. Life has diarrhea and is sitting on top of an industrial-size fan. I don't even know where to begin to complain let alone where to start with this update.

I've been feeling so dead inside that I've stopped caring about things. Trying to talk to me and get an intelligent conversation out of it is an impossibility. I'm so worn out, and it's only a month into the semester! I've been like that since the dog died. I don't know if I'm still mourning subconsciously or if it is something else. Everyone else got over it and are looking at new dogs to adopt. And yet, here I am, not wanting to even get out of bed in the morning. I literally have to force myself to do anything.

But what about the things I want to do? Well, as much as I like to do those things, I find myself doing other things instead. I would like to get back to my fireworks project and maybe even finally buy an iMac with Final Cut on it since I made back what I loss in spending for my Study Abroad trip. But instead, I find myself wanting to go to sleep or play mindless video games. Right now, I'm more excited about Spore finally having a release date than I am about the fact I only have one semester left of college if all goes according to plan!

The stuff that needs to get done, I'm half-assing my way through. I don't really care nor want to explain why I'm making images in Seminar that probably don't have anything to do with contemporary art theory so much as they have to do with the iconographic of cartoons. I'm making what is in essence a very simple steel shape in Sculpture 2 because any other complicated ideas or things that I would like to do end up getting shot down by the project goals. And I'm technically behind in Public Art class right now because of the day I had to spend in bed after catching everything that everyone else had.

To further complicate things, I find myself lusting over guys I know I don't have a chance with hooking up with even for a one-night stand. It's gotten to the point where I find myself trying to make sure that I don't get caught by someone other than myself. Yet the sad part about that is the fact that I know all I want is someone to just make me feel good at the end of the day. I can't do that for myself, and I'm starting to expect that the old saying is true. If I can't believe in myself, what are the chances that someone will be able to believe in me? None. And still, that sexual desire gnaws at me to the point where I'm viewing pornography daily and resorting to looking up even the raunchiest of straight porn on the internet just to slake my want to see really hot men naked and having sex. It's a mind-numbing perversion that resulted in a shopping list totaling nearly $1,000 worth of DVDs, toys, and lube.

That said, I have about $500+ worth of DVDs bookmarked on Amazon.com that I would like to have. Partly out of research, as they are all animation related, but mostly because they are long overdue purchases that I've been wanting to get. It's putting a real dent in my wallet right now, and I haven't even bought them yet!

I'm approaching the end of my rope. I have nobody to call, nobody who is willing to put up with me long enough to hang out with me, and no sign of relief anywhere! The desperate cry of release continues to be muffled because, let's face it, I have no real outlet for it where people can hear it. This is it, people. This is the only way I can get all that out, and even this isn't enough! I'm practically the definition for the Internet Emo!

And yet, I know that nobody gives a fuck. Why? Because I don't. I'm just so tired of life that I want it all to go away.

Dead on the Inside

As much as I like the idea that humor can mask over anything, even something as dry as what I attempted to write, it cannot hide the fact that I'm feeling very much dead already on the inside.

I don't know how to describe it, but if my exposure to contemporary Japanese anime has any kind of content to relate to the feeling, it is this. The closest example I can use to describe how I feel are those lifeless shells the non-descript throw-away generic humans look like when some paranormal force sucks their life energy away. (See Sailor Moon) The only difference is that I'm very much conscious as to what is going on around me. My reactions, however, are minimal yet explosive. In other words, I don't have much of an emote range any more, but what I do emote is very violent in nature.

Case and point, I was commanded to help move a large piece of furniture from one area of the house to another that, in my opinion, didn't needed to be moved to begin with. A combination of past experiences merged into one huge miasma of frustration and aggression that can only be justified and stereotyped by my gender role in the Asian family model. The ancient one, that is, where if you are male you are automatically more capable of doing male roles such as heavy lifting and supporting your household. To not be able to do so is to bring dishonor to your family. Or so I've come to believe given my experiences with my personal family dynamic. Long story short, I got frustrated because I didn't want to help so much as I knew I would just get in the way. Push came to shove, and I shoved back hard to the point of being seen as disrespectful.

And people wonder why the moment I learn to drive--whenever that moment may be--I say that I'll never return home. I never once called home while I was abroad. Thought about it, mostly out of respect and because it is the proper thing to do, but that's about it. I never got home sick while I was living in Seattle for those three short months. I sometimes wonder how I can get home sick when I don't feel like I have a home to being with.

I don't know where I am in my current downward spiral, but I have a feeling I've past the point of no return.

No motivation
No drive to do anything
No want to do something

No feeling
No knowing what to feel
No knowing what should be felt

Nothing
Not a thing done
Not a thing completed

No thinking
No doing
No...

Just sleep
Forever...

What To Do

It's been over 72 hours since I found out Shadow has died.

Since then, I've been pretty much been dead myself. I don't know why. Since Thursday night, I've been feeling very empty and depressed. I don't know if it is connected to Shadow's death or not. I don't know if it because I feel upset over the fact that I was the only person that did anything for her during her last six days with us.

The only thing I do know is that I've become unresponsive. I found myself sitting here in front of the computer staring down a project proposal for my class trying to figure out how to make it better only to grow more and more frustrated at it. My escapes through internet games has grown tiresome. I even quit a game of Sam & Max before even finishing the first act! The music I've downloaded and BitTorrent-ed has been blaring in my ears whenever it can.

And sleep is becoming more and more attractive to me. All I want to do is sleep and hope my troubles disappear. All of them.