i can hardly tell what im doing anymore. treading and breathing heavy, day after day. too many times ive spoken out of place, and too many times ive played misleading. whatev.
blogspot, give me shelter.
ive been out of commission in the art world. its just me standing just beyond the crowd and looking in hungrily at all the young talent and sexual steps. its just me clutching a useless piece of chalk and rubbing it on my fingers... it used to help but now it only makes for dirty jeans. tried the loud music, tried the getting high part, tried the hours of studying [impressionism has been a good read though]. nothing wants to well over. nothing wants to take the place of all the white or off tan i see in the papers and newsprints. i makes the lines, i make the shades, but once started its never been so hard to finish. i used to draw all fucking day. and now im just full of headaches and laziness. i want a camera. this is how bad its getting. there are no other artists so lazy as photographers. and im finding my self falling into that area. photos are nothing but pre-set-up art. and easy lay, a hand out. and i have never wanted to dabble more. fuck that. im not going in that direction. im little better than sepia soaked images on glossy paper, im more of a glue on my fingers for weeks, cant wash this out kind of girl. or at least i try to be. some times pretend to be. sigh. maybe im holding on too hard. but what if it doesnt come back? this motivation ive lost? what if im left with my fucking thumb up my ass and alot of mediocre scribbles? great. now im just fucking sad.
my father has had me worried lately. he keeps going on about june, about scattering the box full of little brother. part of me knows hes not ready to go back to california, [that place is nothing but death death death to us Barron people] and ive told him but hes a persistent and stubborn man. like most men in my life. ugh i almost admitted the pseudo-Oedipus complex. . . creepy. but anyway. my father. hes killing me. everytime i see him its like watching a static screen. his eyes are empty and his words are ringing echos. sometimes hell laugh and ill swear he could be crying and i wouldnt know the difference. im at a loss at what to do, the strong one in the family right now, thats me, but im getting sick and a little scared at my failing attempts at keeping up with the title. and its all mine, nothing i can say that people wont let slide off. its just another sob story here. just another thing to forget once its your turn to talk.
enough of this.
im evading work again. a little fed up with the strange rulers and ridiculous notes. [please do not slame the bups at the ptl's, you will get written up. sign here please]
its fine. im going to go whore for a cigarette.