Shrimp are Still Beautiful
My Grandfather and his girlfriend, Alberta, rolled into town in their giant camper last weekend. I was ready for some family time and rented a car to go and meet them, taking time to visit with cousins first and staying with my aunt and uncle in their open, comfortable house.
Work has been so exhausting lately on every level. There's so much to do, so many different type-A personalities to think about, so much to learn every day. My one year evaluation is coming up. My landlord has decided to change the rental agreement. I've started having anxiety dreams again, and I'm considering going on medication for my worry level, because even a year into my new career path I worry about being unemployed again.
I was ready to be hugged. I was ready for the long table filled with family and huge steaming bowls of shrimp boiled with onions and Grandpa goodness. I was ready to see my cousins. They're all so awesome, from Audrey and Jamie, who are my age, down to Ellie who is now three. Ellie's current favorite word is vagina, proving to me what I have always suspected since I first met the kid - we're on the same wavelength. Ruel is into biting people, and Colin proudly peed in the sandbox. And I laughed my ass off at all these things. My cousin Connie just returned from a teaching internship in South Africa, where she saw and tasted things I probably never will. She's ready to start grad school, and I remember how much I loved grad school. How could that have been over two years ago now? My aunt and uncle both took time to tell me how happy they were to have me spend the night at their house. I felt very loved.
On a whim I drove up to Nashville after that huge shrimp dinner, crashed Kati's welcome home party, hugged her and kissed Underdown and slept next to The Republican. The next morning I took my youngest sister out for some individual attention. We bought shirts at Bongo Java, and talked about the social politics of twelve year old girls, which are vicious. I hugged her and told her that she was one of the neatest people I've ever known, and always has been from the minute she was born and I held her after mom and dad did. It's hard for me to watch Abby, who has always been self-confident and original, who fought for her right to wear wigs to second grade, become unsteady and unsure of herself because of peer disapproval. I'm watching one of my favorite people approach the politics of Junior High with impending dread. I think she'll make it through OK. I'm going to reassure her a lot. But Jesus Christ, Sixth Grade...
I remember once Aral and I had a discussion about leg shaving. And basically I realized I shave my legs because I'm afraid the girls I knew in Junior High will come back and make fun of me if I don't. Thank goodness I grew up, that I now have unlearned all the lessons Junior High tried to teach me.
My life really is wonderful , you know? I live in the part of town I love best, and I'm considering getting an apartment on my own. I'm making money and although the job is stressful, it stretches my mental muscles constantly, challenging me and forcing me to learn again and again. I have a boyfriend who sent me a dozen red roses Tuesday for no reason other than that he was thinking of me. I am loved, I can buy whatever I need from the grocery store, I can drink coffee and read comics on a Friday night with impunity.
Of course, I worry too much that I'll lose all this somehow.
This week I worked so hard and so much, spending two nights away from home with my immediate supervisor. The next two weeks will be no better, and I'm thankful that I had the foresight to schedule some vacation time, next Friday and Monday. I'll go camping over May Day weekend with The Republican. I can think of nothing better than stretching on the warm green grass next to him, under the sun, eating strawberries and laughing about any goddamn thing.
All of that fun? It's made possible by my incredibly stressful job. I have to learn to celebrate that hard work, because as much as it wears me out psychologically, I'm definitely enjoying the benefits I get just by keeping on with it.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Too much of a good thing
Last Saturday I attended a very large, very wild sort of festival. Among the attractions was a make-up artist who used an airbrush machine to body paint people. His work was amazing, and The Republican couldn’t resist the temptation to get covered in a way that would let him walk around with less clothes on. I watched with frank admiration as the airbrush artist covered him with green and brown vines that wound around his torso and back, climbing up to the sides of his face and highlighting his eyes. After the vines were sprayed on, leaves were painted and outlined, making my boyfriend a living celebration of spring. There was one last go-over with the airbrush equipment then, adding highlights and sheen to the leaves. To cap off the whole thing, The Republican was then showered with copper-gold glitter.
I know this all sounds terribly feminine, but the artwork didn’t present itself that way at all. In the end he was just…well, I guess manly is a weird word to use when talking about a make-up treatment, but the vines and leaves had a way of making him look stronger. The artist knew his work, and without seeming too the lines of greenery highlighted the lean muscle and sinew beneath The Republican’s skin. Only pictures would do the art, and the man, justice. As we walked around for the rest of the day, people took his picture. The airbrush artist did a lot of good work that day; the festival was full of girls in different colored flames, complicated Celtic designs, waves of color and patterns that didn’t rub off as easily as you’d expect. Soap got rid of everything fairly quickly though.
Of course, I sneezed glitter for the next three days. Good God, that stuff is pernicious. Still, I wouldn’t have traded seeing him look like that under the warm April sun for anything in the world.
I had a few people over to my house for breakfast the next day. We had all stayed up too late and partied too hard the day before. I had the unfortunate experience of sleeping on what had to be the hardest floor in the world after deciding not to go home the previous evening. Sunday was spent sore and sleeping, Monday much the same way only with the dull horror of a stressful workday mixed in. I’m not 19 anymore. I still love the big parties, the loud crowd, and it’s hard for me to leave when I know I ought too. But I’ve got to quit that kind of thing. It’s taking me longer and longer to recover, physically, from too much fun.
It’s not that I was drinking or smoking last weekend. In fact, I made myself the designated driver this time around. It’s just that I get tired more easily, and my body is less forgiving when I eat crap all day and sleep under a blanket on some random floor. These things used not to bother me, but here it’s Wednesday, I think *maybe* by tomorrow I might feel right again. And good god, my room at home is a mess because I didn’t have time this weekend to clean. I’m getting old, I’m getting boring, and I know it. Half the joy of seeing The Republican in glitter was having him on my arm, and knowing that at nearly 30 he could still draw looks of envy from other people in the crowd.
So this weekend I’ll be with family, and next weekend Ford will visit, and both of these weekends will be full of a quieter kind of joy. After that I’m going to another big festival/party, camping on May Day weekend. And I will take better care of myself next time. Although it’s hard not to get caught up in the moment when there’s glitter, and music, and the world is so full of the wonderful press of life and living.
Last Saturday I attended a very large, very wild sort of festival. Among the attractions was a make-up artist who used an airbrush machine to body paint people. His work was amazing, and The Republican couldn’t resist the temptation to get covered in a way that would let him walk around with less clothes on. I watched with frank admiration as the airbrush artist covered him with green and brown vines that wound around his torso and back, climbing up to the sides of his face and highlighting his eyes. After the vines were sprayed on, leaves were painted and outlined, making my boyfriend a living celebration of spring. There was one last go-over with the airbrush equipment then, adding highlights and sheen to the leaves. To cap off the whole thing, The Republican was then showered with copper-gold glitter.
I know this all sounds terribly feminine, but the artwork didn’t present itself that way at all. In the end he was just…well, I guess manly is a weird word to use when talking about a make-up treatment, but the vines and leaves had a way of making him look stronger. The artist knew his work, and without seeming too the lines of greenery highlighted the lean muscle and sinew beneath The Republican’s skin. Only pictures would do the art, and the man, justice. As we walked around for the rest of the day, people took his picture. The airbrush artist did a lot of good work that day; the festival was full of girls in different colored flames, complicated Celtic designs, waves of color and patterns that didn’t rub off as easily as you’d expect. Soap got rid of everything fairly quickly though.
Of course, I sneezed glitter for the next three days. Good God, that stuff is pernicious. Still, I wouldn’t have traded seeing him look like that under the warm April sun for anything in the world.
I had a few people over to my house for breakfast the next day. We had all stayed up too late and partied too hard the day before. I had the unfortunate experience of sleeping on what had to be the hardest floor in the world after deciding not to go home the previous evening. Sunday was spent sore and sleeping, Monday much the same way only with the dull horror of a stressful workday mixed in. I’m not 19 anymore. I still love the big parties, the loud crowd, and it’s hard for me to leave when I know I ought too. But I’ve got to quit that kind of thing. It’s taking me longer and longer to recover, physically, from too much fun.
It’s not that I was drinking or smoking last weekend. In fact, I made myself the designated driver this time around. It’s just that I get tired more easily, and my body is less forgiving when I eat crap all day and sleep under a blanket on some random floor. These things used not to bother me, but here it’s Wednesday, I think *maybe* by tomorrow I might feel right again. And good god, my room at home is a mess because I didn’t have time this weekend to clean. I’m getting old, I’m getting boring, and I know it. Half the joy of seeing The Republican in glitter was having him on my arm, and knowing that at nearly 30 he could still draw looks of envy from other people in the crowd.
So this weekend I’ll be with family, and next weekend Ford will visit, and both of these weekends will be full of a quieter kind of joy. After that I’m going to another big festival/party, camping on May Day weekend. And I will take better care of myself next time. Although it’s hard not to get caught up in the moment when there’s glitter, and music, and the world is so full of the wonderful press of life and living.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Artists and the price of things
Following the burst of creative energy I had last week, I decided that making hemp necklaces again would be fun and entertaining. I missed my old living room set-up in Murfreesboro, where I had two big drawers full of arts and crafts next to the TV to busy myself with when I was indoors. I wanted that again; drawers full of odd things to create little gifts for my friends with. I got a ball of hemp twine from the grocer’s, but was at a loss to find beads. Surely, I thought, in my neighborhood full of head shops and alternative establishments, I could find craft supplies.
I stopped first at 42 degrees, an art glass shop near the grocer’s. The front of this store is full of vases and ornaments and sculptures of hand-blown glass, beautiful things to see. The middle of the store contains supplies for glass artisans. The back of the store, in front of which a sign prohibiting anyone under 18, is full of head gear. The shop owner was happy I came in looking for beads, and showed me around the jewelry counter in the middle of the store. There in cases were hand-made bracelets, earrings, and pendants, many by local artists. On one end of the counter was a rack much like an abacus full of glass beads. The rods of each rack came off and I was shown the most beautiful beads on a piece of black velvet. Each one had its own pattern, and the smallest were about half an inch in diameter. The rods on the abacus set-up were numbered, and they belonged to local artists. The least expensive beads were $6.50, $12 a pair. I felt compelled to support this type of artwork and despite knowing better bought a few, which were each wrapped and put in a small box. But I couldn’t make whole necklaces out of these without going bankrupt, so I still needed beads.
Another store that I thought would sell beads didn’t but sent me on to a storefront down Euclid I’d never been into before. I thought the place next to where I go for used paperbacks was another head shop (my neighborhood now has 4 in 2 blocks), but instead the grimy storefront turned out to be full of cheap imported accessories, including one wall of nothing but beads for craft work. The store owner there told me she went to Indonesia herself to buy the beads, and would be returning there for more supplies soon. Strung on cords of grass or string about half a meter long and looped like necklaces were rough beads of glass, wood, bone, all different shades and colors. The ropes of beads were priced as a whole, but if you don’t want the whole rope the store owner would half it for you. The cheapest strands were around $6, the most expensive $32. Because I wanted variety, I got three half-strands of very plain glass beads and one half-strand of glass beads that had stripes in them. Patterns cost more than plain, and a lot of the pricing seemed rather arbitrary to me, probably based on popularity of pattern rather than quality of work.
While I was checking out, some copper bracelets and necklaces by the register caught my eye. I recognized the bracelets because I’d seen them being made just a few weekends before. A homeless man with a pair of pliers and a pile of copper wiring he’d ripped out of some old house had sat on the corner outside of Little 5 and had made the jewelry out of nothing, it seemed. Watching the homeless man with the thick copper wire had been a crowd of 20-somethings like me, transfixed. It was like watching someone make balloon animals. None of us knew copper wiring could do the things that man did with it, and so quickly! Someone had actually said “He should do parties!”
Some of these pieces were far more elaborate than the ones he made that night, but his work was unmistakable. I had to ask the shop owner. “Did you buy these from that homeless guy in the park?”
“Who, Copper John?”
“I don’t know his name. I saw him making bracelets a few weekends ago..”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s in jail again right now. He’s a thief, watch out.”
“Is he just a crack addict, or what?”
“Yup.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“He doesn’t think so. I buy whatever he makes but doesn’t sell in a night, and he gets his mail here.”
I took a close look at Copper John’s work, displayed on black velvet jewelry cushions in this grubby import shop. Loops and swirls and other things tightly bound together to form patterns any designer would envy – Copper John had made pieces that, if I hadn’t known they were the work of a crack addict on a street corner out of stolen wiring – might have commanded high prices in a store like 42 degrees. Copper John’s pieces ran from $12 to $24 retail. I think on the street corner he was asking 10 to 20. I suspect the shop owner pays much less, but then she probably buys many pieces at a time, besides keeping Copper John’s mail for him.
Despite the fact that I admire his work, I passed on the copper pieces. I thought about it though, as I walked home with a bag full of beads that had cost me just as much as the smaller box I’d gotten at the start of the day. As I put all the beads on the coffee table that afternoon to take a look before planning my craft work, I had to take a minute to think about their production. The beads from Indonesia were rough glass. As I pulled them off their stands, some were fused together and some had rough edges. Although color from batch to batch was uniform, the beads were cut at all different sizes, and to my dismay one lot had an inner diameter that varied widely. By contrast the beads from local artists sat smooth, beautiful, little works of art polished and sickenly expensive compared to their imported counterparts. I imagined my imported beads being made on some foreign beach as quickly as possible by women and children who had lots of burns from the process. I thought about my American beads being individually fussed over by some guy in a house near mine. I thought about Copper John on the street corner, and someone in an old rental unit wondering why their air conditioning didn’t work after a long winter, only to discover the wiring had been removed.
What is the fair price for handcrafts? These are shiny things that catch our eyes, but serve very little purpose. I never sell mine, but give them away. How is it so much less expensive for one store owner to fly halfway around the world for beads, and accessories when such a superior product is made locally? Sometimes I think that the more I know about art, the less I understand.
Following the burst of creative energy I had last week, I decided that making hemp necklaces again would be fun and entertaining. I missed my old living room set-up in Murfreesboro, where I had two big drawers full of arts and crafts next to the TV to busy myself with when I was indoors. I wanted that again; drawers full of odd things to create little gifts for my friends with. I got a ball of hemp twine from the grocer’s, but was at a loss to find beads. Surely, I thought, in my neighborhood full of head shops and alternative establishments, I could find craft supplies.
I stopped first at 42 degrees, an art glass shop near the grocer’s. The front of this store is full of vases and ornaments and sculptures of hand-blown glass, beautiful things to see. The middle of the store contains supplies for glass artisans. The back of the store, in front of which a sign prohibiting anyone under 18, is full of head gear. The shop owner was happy I came in looking for beads, and showed me around the jewelry counter in the middle of the store. There in cases were hand-made bracelets, earrings, and pendants, many by local artists. On one end of the counter was a rack much like an abacus full of glass beads. The rods of each rack came off and I was shown the most beautiful beads on a piece of black velvet. Each one had its own pattern, and the smallest were about half an inch in diameter. The rods on the abacus set-up were numbered, and they belonged to local artists. The least expensive beads were $6.50, $12 a pair. I felt compelled to support this type of artwork and despite knowing better bought a few, which were each wrapped and put in a small box. But I couldn’t make whole necklaces out of these without going bankrupt, so I still needed beads.
Another store that I thought would sell beads didn’t but sent me on to a storefront down Euclid I’d never been into before. I thought the place next to where I go for used paperbacks was another head shop (my neighborhood now has 4 in 2 blocks), but instead the grimy storefront turned out to be full of cheap imported accessories, including one wall of nothing but beads for craft work. The store owner there told me she went to Indonesia herself to buy the beads, and would be returning there for more supplies soon. Strung on cords of grass or string about half a meter long and looped like necklaces were rough beads of glass, wood, bone, all different shades and colors. The ropes of beads were priced as a whole, but if you don’t want the whole rope the store owner would half it for you. The cheapest strands were around $6, the most expensive $32. Because I wanted variety, I got three half-strands of very plain glass beads and one half-strand of glass beads that had stripes in them. Patterns cost more than plain, and a lot of the pricing seemed rather arbitrary to me, probably based on popularity of pattern rather than quality of work.
While I was checking out, some copper bracelets and necklaces by the register caught my eye. I recognized the bracelets because I’d seen them being made just a few weekends before. A homeless man with a pair of pliers and a pile of copper wiring he’d ripped out of some old house had sat on the corner outside of Little 5 and had made the jewelry out of nothing, it seemed. Watching the homeless man with the thick copper wire had been a crowd of 20-somethings like me, transfixed. It was like watching someone make balloon animals. None of us knew copper wiring could do the things that man did with it, and so quickly! Someone had actually said “He should do parties!”
Some of these pieces were far more elaborate than the ones he made that night, but his work was unmistakable. I had to ask the shop owner. “Did you buy these from that homeless guy in the park?”
“Who, Copper John?”
“I don’t know his name. I saw him making bracelets a few weekends ago..”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s in jail again right now. He’s a thief, watch out.”
“Is he just a crack addict, or what?”
“Yup.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“He doesn’t think so. I buy whatever he makes but doesn’t sell in a night, and he gets his mail here.”
I took a close look at Copper John’s work, displayed on black velvet jewelry cushions in this grubby import shop. Loops and swirls and other things tightly bound together to form patterns any designer would envy – Copper John had made pieces that, if I hadn’t known they were the work of a crack addict on a street corner out of stolen wiring – might have commanded high prices in a store like 42 degrees. Copper John’s pieces ran from $12 to $24 retail. I think on the street corner he was asking 10 to 20. I suspect the shop owner pays much less, but then she probably buys many pieces at a time, besides keeping Copper John’s mail for him.
Despite the fact that I admire his work, I passed on the copper pieces. I thought about it though, as I walked home with a bag full of beads that had cost me just as much as the smaller box I’d gotten at the start of the day. As I put all the beads on the coffee table that afternoon to take a look before planning my craft work, I had to take a minute to think about their production. The beads from Indonesia were rough glass. As I pulled them off their stands, some were fused together and some had rough edges. Although color from batch to batch was uniform, the beads were cut at all different sizes, and to my dismay one lot had an inner diameter that varied widely. By contrast the beads from local artists sat smooth, beautiful, little works of art polished and sickenly expensive compared to their imported counterparts. I imagined my imported beads being made on some foreign beach as quickly as possible by women and children who had lots of burns from the process. I thought about my American beads being individually fussed over by some guy in a house near mine. I thought about Copper John on the street corner, and someone in an old rental unit wondering why their air conditioning didn’t work after a long winter, only to discover the wiring had been removed.
What is the fair price for handcrafts? These are shiny things that catch our eyes, but serve very little purpose. I never sell mine, but give them away. How is it so much less expensive for one store owner to fly halfway around the world for beads, and accessories when such a superior product is made locally? Sometimes I think that the more I know about art, the less I understand.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Progenative Force
It seems I can't help but create things these days. On weekends I tend plants growing out of hand. I bake outrageously complex meals for myself and my roomies, experimental recipes for brownies, breads, chicken, and cakes, all from scratch using a variety of new kitchen tools I got for Christmas or borrow from the roomie's odd collection. I write long twisted letters revealing too much to friends, decorated with images from Comics Preview magazine and using other photocopied works of art, newspaper clippings, and hand-drawn doodles. A few weekends ago I spontaneously decided to make a stuffed animal, a little white cat out of fleece for Titania to help her feel less lonely while I'm at work. I desperately want some hemp thread so I can start making necklaces again for myself and friends. Knitting has become wildly popular among my peer group, and I've considered taking it up; after all I already have the needles, as they're a common tool used in book repair. I've been repairing a lot of my books, too.
Help help, I'm bleeding arts & crafts.
The worst of all this preoccupation with handiwork is that I know I'm doing it to avoid writing. While I have managed to turn out two short articles for a political 'zine in Chicago this month, it seemed that my out-of-control creative force only applied to writing once I found out that this 'zine was hopelessly stalled, and that Kati feared for it ever seeing press. Freed up by the thought of being part of another stymied project, I typed away with glee, composing a satirical conversation between Karl Rove and Nixon, and completing a brief biographical rundown of another Republican administrator. Reading about the 9-11 hearings this past week made my efforts feel doubly redundant; now not only did I write these pieces for a zine which may never get published, everyone knows these guys are bastards.
While every plant and meal I touch exceeds expectations, every literary project I involve myself into seems destined to go bitter and fail. The project I am closest to completing sits on my hard drive, mocking me. In order to finish it I'd need a week off of work, a co-conspirator, and at least a grand. I have the leave from work, it's true, but the idea of me pulling together a grand and not using it on my sisters or ever-growing debt is just laughable. The other literary projects I have, while much easier to complete, just languish like forgotten ferns. If I watered the comic book projects with Alestar or myself, I know they'd live again. But they stare at me from my subconscious mockingly. The projects know I've given up on being a writer.
It would be easier to learn how to knit. I could knit while I watched TV. Or I could buy some hemp and glass beads and once again turn out presents for friends that I'd see around their necks for years. Step aside, guys, I've got cookies to bake. Even writing for work seems a chore, the words that should flow easily from me are constricted, too tight, unacceptable for one reason or another, not what the company magazine really needs. The resulting pieces, which, it's true, reach thousands of readers, feel alien to me; informational quasi-advertisements for services available to libraries and archives from the government funding. And to think, I once thrilled feminist horror fans with that short story about puppet miscarriages.
I want to finish the ghost story I started a year and a half ago. I have a clear picture in my head of how the resulting short graphic novel would look, and I think I'm going to approach my filmmaker roomie about working on it with me. He's a photographer, and I think that between the two of us we could really do some innovative image work, twisting digital images to tell the story. But I am afraid of starting another project, with the last one languishing in my picture drive, giggling at my attempts to create again. I am often worn out by my professional work, and I feel deeply conflicted about what the last, unfinished project says about me as an artist and a person. It's like the last project accomplished what I'd really been looking for in my art and writing from nearly 30 years. The last project held a mirror up to me and showed me parts of myself I can't always see, and truthfully it wasn't a flattering reflection as a whole.
Through my own art, I was able to understand more about myself than other people do. And what I discovered has nearly halted my ability to express myself on a higher artistic level. Everything in my life was affected by that last big project - friendship collapsed and were built up around it. My romantic life revolutionized itself. My opinions about family members changed. Everything moved and tilted because at last, I was really making art. And now I find it hard to want to do that again.
Does anyone want a nice scarf?
It seems I can't help but create things these days. On weekends I tend plants growing out of hand. I bake outrageously complex meals for myself and my roomies, experimental recipes for brownies, breads, chicken, and cakes, all from scratch using a variety of new kitchen tools I got for Christmas or borrow from the roomie's odd collection. I write long twisted letters revealing too much to friends, decorated with images from Comics Preview magazine and using other photocopied works of art, newspaper clippings, and hand-drawn doodles. A few weekends ago I spontaneously decided to make a stuffed animal, a little white cat out of fleece for Titania to help her feel less lonely while I'm at work. I desperately want some hemp thread so I can start making necklaces again for myself and friends. Knitting has become wildly popular among my peer group, and I've considered taking it up; after all I already have the needles, as they're a common tool used in book repair. I've been repairing a lot of my books, too.
Help help, I'm bleeding arts & crafts.
The worst of all this preoccupation with handiwork is that I know I'm doing it to avoid writing. While I have managed to turn out two short articles for a political 'zine in Chicago this month, it seemed that my out-of-control creative force only applied to writing once I found out that this 'zine was hopelessly stalled, and that Kati feared for it ever seeing press. Freed up by the thought of being part of another stymied project, I typed away with glee, composing a satirical conversation between Karl Rove and Nixon, and completing a brief biographical rundown of another Republican administrator. Reading about the 9-11 hearings this past week made my efforts feel doubly redundant; now not only did I write these pieces for a zine which may never get published, everyone knows these guys are bastards.
While every plant and meal I touch exceeds expectations, every literary project I involve myself into seems destined to go bitter and fail. The project I am closest to completing sits on my hard drive, mocking me. In order to finish it I'd need a week off of work, a co-conspirator, and at least a grand. I have the leave from work, it's true, but the idea of me pulling together a grand and not using it on my sisters or ever-growing debt is just laughable. The other literary projects I have, while much easier to complete, just languish like forgotten ferns. If I watered the comic book projects with Alestar or myself, I know they'd live again. But they stare at me from my subconscious mockingly. The projects know I've given up on being a writer.
It would be easier to learn how to knit. I could knit while I watched TV. Or I could buy some hemp and glass beads and once again turn out presents for friends that I'd see around their necks for years. Step aside, guys, I've got cookies to bake. Even writing for work seems a chore, the words that should flow easily from me are constricted, too tight, unacceptable for one reason or another, not what the company magazine really needs. The resulting pieces, which, it's true, reach thousands of readers, feel alien to me; informational quasi-advertisements for services available to libraries and archives from the government funding. And to think, I once thrilled feminist horror fans with that short story about puppet miscarriages.
I want to finish the ghost story I started a year and a half ago. I have a clear picture in my head of how the resulting short graphic novel would look, and I think I'm going to approach my filmmaker roomie about working on it with me. He's a photographer, and I think that between the two of us we could really do some innovative image work, twisting digital images to tell the story. But I am afraid of starting another project, with the last one languishing in my picture drive, giggling at my attempts to create again. I am often worn out by my professional work, and I feel deeply conflicted about what the last, unfinished project says about me as an artist and a person. It's like the last project accomplished what I'd really been looking for in my art and writing from nearly 30 years. The last project held a mirror up to me and showed me parts of myself I can't always see, and truthfully it wasn't a flattering reflection as a whole.
Through my own art, I was able to understand more about myself than other people do. And what I discovered has nearly halted my ability to express myself on a higher artistic level. Everything in my life was affected by that last big project - friendship collapsed and were built up around it. My romantic life revolutionized itself. My opinions about family members changed. Everything moved and tilted because at last, I was really making art. And now I find it hard to want to do that again.
Does anyone want a nice scarf?
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