5.17.12

I desperately want someone to drive by my house with a car and say, "Let's go", and take me off on an adventure to somewhere. In silence, night driving, under the brilliant desert stars. Inside of me there is always this itching desire for subsersivity, for escape, for something to jolt me out of my deadness. Sometimes I push it down, most of the time actually, for months at a time, a year even.To for once be helplessly alive and overwhelmed in it, to have a moment that can never be confused for a dream, and that I'll never forget. The one moment when I did everything I ever wanted, held nothing back, left nothing untried, had no regrets. Even if this means doing nothing at all, like smoking a cigarette on the roof of some car in the middle of the midwest, or on a cliff over the ocean, staring at the stars in good company or perhaps with my love.

7.27.12

Is censorship wrong? Should I ever censor myself? I always make things as little known as possible because the second people are watching me I hide. I want to be uncenored so I'd rather no one pay any attention. On my twitter, I once deleted the other account because too many people followed me and I wanted to be less censored. Sometimes now I'm getting to the point where I almost want to delete and start agaaaaiin, cuz I have like 63 followers. 
What should I do? Should I just not give a damn and not have a private and public sphere of life? Or should I censor myself according to context? What makes a context online? The followers? But if they followed me in the first place, then isn't it their responsibility to enter or not enter that context? They can always unfollow me, I tell myself. I want to say fuck it when I'm thinking fuck it. I want to reblog a picture of two naked lovers in bed on tumbler when I see it and it's beautiful and I want to, and not give a damn about whether or not its appropriate. I want to say my dad infuriates me when my dad infuriates me on twitter and not feel guilty about it. I want to let loose every emotion and thought freely. Is this a wrong desire? Should I control myself? Is the issue self control?

8.18.12

Sometimes when I'm really feelin down I have this great longing to sit underwater. All the sounds become muffled by this heavy pressure all around you; I imagine babies must feel so comforted in this same way in their mother's womb. 

7.27.12

I went home because I needed to make art. I need to make art in order to stay alive. That is literally speaking too, it is no poetic statement or analogy. I need it in order to be. Every art piece of mine is a self portrait. Every one is deeply personal, it is like a page of this blog or of a journal. I think that's why I can't make art around people. I told my shrink this and she seemed to think this was an important enough reason to go home.

8.4.12

For some reason one of the biggest things that depress me is when I make a meal and there's no one there to eat it. Or even if they're there physically they aren't in any other way. I don't know why but it just makes me so sad and want to give up on everything. That's what happened today so I didn't even eat and now it's probably all gone anyway so who even gives a damn. I feel like bawling my eyes out while staring at the sea with hard alcohol and cigarettes. My heart feels broken for a lot of reasons and cuz of this. I hate cooking when thus happens. It's like giving an unappreciated gift or like a piece of art that no one cares about. Cuz truly, cooking is to me all those things. Therapy. Gift. Art. What a whiny bitch I am. 

8.4.12

Sometimes I don't follow people on twitter because I'm afraid they'll feel obligated to follow me and I don't want anyone to follow me unless they actually want to follow me because I tweet so much and say such dumb boring shit all the time that I can't imagine forcing a person into such a position as my audience due to obligation. So I occasionally just stalk their profile and enjoy their tweets unpublicly.

8.4.12

I have so many images in my head. But there they remain there for a while longer and maybe forever because it takes endless amounts of leisure time and solitude to reach the point of mind where it can come to fruition in physical form. I've read this before, so this is nothing original I don't think, but much of the work of making an art piece is the work that is invisible. The seemingly unproductive time where you are even "wasting time", "doing nothing"; the sort of time that our culture despises and hardly allows for. Similarly making a garden is like painting. It takes time and contemplation for anything beautiful. Babies take nine months to be made as Calvin Seerveld said. 
That's so stupid to intuitively feel a sense of failure of having not "produced" something. If you are not productive, you're doing nothing. What fucking bullshit. If this is true I want to do "nothing" till the day I die then.

8.6.12

How many much longer can such beauty continue to break my heart? I know no such glorious aching as when I am confronted with sublimity, and with beauty. The lingering sound of a ringing piano key in the still, silent air. Or the radiance of a soprano piercing even the light of the sun. The way of paint as it slowly mingles and dances with water. It is like embracing a lover and the way bodies were made for one another's. My mind flies from my body to rest amidst the clouds of unearthly color in awe. Truly, I cant take it in. I sit here on the floor, having abandoned the painting of the wall under the influence of such a breathtaking sound. Restless abandon I shall die, I shall die. If I am to die, my wish is to die of being overwhelmed by beauty in a thousand times the grandeur I have known, the effect of such at last breaking my heart, my mind at last truly flying above the clouds.

8.6.12

I am alive. After having spent so long longing and looking for something, I have found it. I have felt human. I have read novel after novel. I have sat and stared in silence at the light pouring through the white curtain in the morning. I have sat on the back porch and been devastated over the death of Anna and thrilled at the birth of Levin's son and rejoiced in the wheat of his harvest amidst the summer storm. I have painted with water and old acrylics on the edge of the pouring rain on the back porch which on occasion splattered on my painting and mixed with the colors. I have held a child with blue eyes as she grasped me with her tiny hands and declared her love. I have sat in vacant silence with my sister on the top of a hill devastated by the beauty of the green field and the clouds of orange and pink. I have ran a mile very day for a week. I have had leisure time at last, I have escaped from capitalism at last if only for a moment. I have had time. It had been summer break. I have begun to be rested.