![Vexual Frustration
Painting, political campaigns and not having the right neurological chemistry to handle brain science are kicking my ass hard.
- “If you can’t make it good, make it big” is one of the reasons why people make huge things. So many months back that it feels like a different life sector, I had a dream that turned into an idea. The idea went to photoshop, where it demonstrated how far beyond my skill capacities it was, so it went into the holding tank. Then some shit happened, and the idea no longer made any sense, but I thought “challenge time” in terms of skill capacity, so the idea changed.
I built the canvas and did some foolish prep work, thinking “this feels foolish.” Maybe foolish is the point, right? After sketching the drawing, which took forever because I suck at drawing (and I swear the reason why all of my drawings are off-kilter at both sides off the center is because my leftbrain is mentally retarded and my rightbrain runs so fast that it overheats), I thought “this drawing sucks,” but I still liked the one part of it. So I started painting.
Painting is fucking hard. Sometimes I don’t understand why anybody takes the time, because it takes a lot of it. It’s so easy to get trapped in different rabbit holes, where you’re zoomed into one task or part or area, thinking “this does not feel foolish” because you’re in the kind of zone that athletes and upper class white folks talk about, and you knock it out. Then you move to the next step. This keeps happening for at least four 8-hour non-consecutive days of micro-painting.
Every time you think you’re entering the final stretches, something happens. Wednesday was splattered turpentine and globs of poorly mixed paint, because I’m too broke to buy a decent medium and the situation with the floors and walls is that they’re going to get fucked up, so stop worrying about the housing market right now. Also some shitty glazing choices, and the fact that this project is beyond my current skill capacity. But I kept painting.
You fast-forward through a day and a half and you come out of the latest rabbit hole. And look - you’re almost done with the over-under-painting, the one that you’re pretty sure you can tweak with this “need proper ingredients” glazing thing - (you really need to stop fucking around with this, or maybe this is how a person learns how to make a painting actually breathe, by constantly fucking up the glazing) - - - step back, go outside - - not good enough, take the dogs somewhere green, come back and look! - Look. You have Miami Vice.
Holy shit, this feels foolish. Let alone how it looks.
[aside: what the hell is going on with the violet thing? it didn’t work the first three times. thought that was clear. is this one of those “ARTISTS CANNOT CONTROL THE CRAZY” 80’s pastel nagel white leather loafer things?]
If you completely hated making the Miami Vice painting, you would’ve quit already. But you love the zoomed focus. It’s difficult to get there, and it gets less complicated in small increments, and when I’m there, I’m nowhere else. Minus the brain science thing.
( - According to the first sentence in this post, this is where the political campaign vexations go. This is very fucking boring. It’s like being a 12-year-old in the middle of a stupid, expensive divorce that could’ve been avoided if your parents would stop bitching about the same tired shit that has NOTHING TO DO WITH WHY THEY’RE ACTUALLY INCOMPATIBLE and just settle out of court and start fucking other people. It’s so obvious that your mom needs to get laid and your dad needs to get fucked and they both need some strange so bad, they cannot see straight. So they don’t see this. They just keep bitching. They don’t see that the kitchen’s on fire, and you look forward to the house burning down, even though that means all of ya’ll will have to find a new place. But you’re so bored, you can’t wait to watch the state of things go up in flames.)
Transition Goes Here
I don’t know if I can handle atheism. So far, it’s not going as well as doubting god.
When I work on art projects, I listen to people talking. Sometimes I listen to music. Mostly, I listen to people talking about science and how different brains work. Despite my best intentions, I retain an unusual level of information this way.
Memories are combinations of chemicals that change every time you remember something that happened once. The less you remember something, the closer that memory is to what actually happened. Once. This means that everything you experience, at least in this time zone, isn’t truly preserved. Safekeeping of memory is a physical impossibility.
Next time you want to learn spanish or kiss that person or take that motorcycle class or apologize for destroying something or call your grandfather or have an affair or lose ten pounds or go to new orleans or uberlândia or sleep outside or drive to the desert by yourself, you probably should. And when you think about it ever again, you’ll know it will never, ever be the same.
[aside: unless you figure out a way to hurtle your radioactive mindray telephysical self through the nautilus shell that is the known universe, passing your other selves every ten frillion light years, hollering at them “hey! how are your - or our - strings put together?!” and waiting for the echo answer that reminds you about the weirdness of no new colors, no new shapes, no new elements, no god-with-giant-hands - but how the same thing with slight variances can be just as exciting for all you budding cosmonauts! this is where you start to sound a little crazy - but]
(public education has its shortcomings. so does —>)
Spending the bulk of time either painting at home or working on campus in art studios can be a bit isolating. Is this obvious?
I won’t even try to tackle the free will thing. But before we go, let’s talk about atheism. When your malnourished brain, aging body and manic spirit start to separate at almost every seam, you probably have a problem. I have it, this problem, feeling the seam-splitting. It’s either impossible or just a new sensation. My bets are on impossible, because right now, I think it takes a certain chemical compound in a specific series of compounds to handle the fact that we absolutely cannot matter unless we create a reason to matter, like a god or a problem. You can argue your points as loudly as you wish, but all points are pointing to not mattering. Not in the big, long run.
Atheism is a shape-shifter that moves from room to room like a fly - objectification is why religion is so handy - and as soon as our beloved baby boomers die, our generation X will either bow to Jesus because we’re tired, or Science is going to take over. Either way, it’s gonna get interesting, assuming no armageddon.
“The reason why [your adrenaline levels are so high] is because you’re back in college,” said Liz. “It’s supposed to be uncertain.”
It still feels foolish. I can’t wait to post the Miami Vice.](http://media.tumblr.com/kfibP3zrMdjdpnqwnq8AWgSK_400.jpg)
Vexual Frustration
Painting, political campaigns and not having the right neurological chemistry to handle brain science are kicking my ass hard.
- “If you can’t make it good, make it big” is one of the reasons why people make huge things. So many months back that it feels like a different life sector, I had a dream that turned into an idea. The idea went to photoshop, where it demonstrated how far beyond my skill capacities it was, so it went into the holding tank. Then some shit happened, and the idea no longer made any sense, but I thought “challenge time” in terms of skill capacity, so the idea changed.
I built the canvas and did some foolish prep work, thinking “this feels foolish.” Maybe foolish is the point, right? After sketching the drawing, which took forever because I suck at drawing (and I swear the reason why all of my drawings are off-kilter at both sides off the center is because my leftbrain is mentally retarded and my rightbrain runs so fast that it overheats), I thought “this drawing sucks,” but I still liked the one part of it. So I started painting.
Painting is fucking hard. Sometimes I don’t understand why anybody takes the time, because it takes a lot of it. It’s so easy to get trapped in different rabbit holes, where you’re zoomed into one task or part or area, thinking “this does not feel foolish” because you’re in the kind of zone that athletes and upper class white folks talk about, and you knock it out. Then you move to the next step. This keeps happening for at least four 8-hour non-consecutive days of micro-painting.
Every time you think you’re entering the final stretches, something happens. Wednesday was splattered turpentine and globs of poorly mixed paint, because I’m too broke to buy a decent medium and the situation with the floors and walls is that they’re going to get fucked up, so stop worrying about the housing market right now. Also some shitty glazing choices, and the fact that this project is beyond my current skill capacity. But I kept painting.
You fast-forward through a day and a half and you come out of the latest rabbit hole. And look - you’re almost done with the over-under-painting, the one that you’re pretty sure you can tweak with this “need proper ingredients” glazing thing - (you really need to stop fucking around with this, or maybe this is how a person learns how to make a painting actually breathe, by constantly fucking up the glazing) - - - step back, go outside - - not good enough, take the dogs somewhere green, come back and look! - Look. You have Miami Vice.
Holy shit, this feels foolish. Let alone how it looks.
[aside: what the hell is going on with the violet thing? it didn’t work the first three times. thought that was clear. is this one of those “ARTISTS CANNOT CONTROL THE CRAZY” 80’s pastel nagel white leather loafer things?]
If you completely hated making the Miami Vice painting, you would’ve quit already. But you love the zoomed focus. It’s difficult to get there, and it gets less complicated in small increments, and when I’m there, I’m nowhere else. Minus the brain science thing.
( - According to the first sentence in this post, this is where the political campaign vexations go. This is very fucking boring. It’s like being a 12-year-old in the middle of a stupid, expensive divorce that could’ve been avoided if your parents would stop bitching about the same tired shit that has NOTHING TO DO WITH WHY THEY’RE ACTUALLY INCOMPATIBLE and just settle out of court and start fucking other people. It’s so obvious that your mom needs to get laid and your dad needs to get fucked and they both need some strange so bad, they cannot see straight. So they don’t see this. They just keep bitching. They don’t see that the kitchen’s on fire, and you look forward to the house burning down, even though that means all of ya’ll will have to find a new place. But you’re so bored, you can’t wait to watch the state of things go up in flames.)
Transition Goes Here
I don’t know if I can handle atheism. So far, it’s not going as well as doubting god.
When I work on art projects, I listen to people talking. Sometimes I listen to music. Mostly, I listen to people talking about science and how different brains work. Despite my best intentions, I retain an unusual level of information this way.
Memories are combinations of chemicals that change every time you remember something that happened once. The less you remember something, the closer that memory is to what actually happened. Once. This means that everything you experience, at least in this time zone, isn’t truly preserved. Safekeeping of memory is a physical impossibility.
Next time you want to learn spanish or kiss that person or take that motorcycle class or apologize for destroying something or call your grandfather or have an affair or lose ten pounds or go to new orleans or uberlândia or sleep outside or drive to the desert by yourself, you probably should. And when you think about it ever again, you’ll know it will never, ever be the same.
[aside: unless you figure out a way to hurtle your radioactive mindray telephysical self through the nautilus shell that is the known universe, passing your other selves every ten frillion light years, hollering at them “hey! how are your - or our - strings put together?!” and waiting for the echo answer that reminds you about the weirdness of no new colors, no new shapes, no new elements, no god-with-giant-hands - but how the same thing with slight variances can be just as exciting for all you budding cosmonauts! this is where you start to sound a little crazy - but]
(public education has its shortcomings. so does —>)
Spending the bulk of time either painting at home or working on campus in art studios can be a bit isolating. Is this obvious?
I won’t even try to tackle the free will thing. But before we go, let’s talk about atheism. When your malnourished brain, aging body and manic spirit start to separate at almost every seam, you probably have a problem. I have it, this problem, feeling the seam-splitting. It’s either impossible or just a new sensation. My bets are on impossible, because right now, I think it takes a certain chemical compound in a specific series of compounds to handle the fact that we absolutely cannot matter unless we create a reason to matter, like a god or a problem. You can argue your points as loudly as you wish, but all points are pointing to not mattering. Not in the big, long run.
Atheism is a shape-shifter that moves from room to room like a fly - objectification is why religion is so handy - and as soon as our beloved baby boomers die, our generation X will either bow to Jesus because we’re tired, or Science is going to take over. Either way, it’s gonna get interesting, assuming no armageddon.
“The reason why [your adrenaline levels are so high] is because you’re back in college,” said Liz. “It’s supposed to be uncertain.”
It still feels foolish. I can’t wait to post the Miami Vice.
