Please keep in mind that this post is more than 3 years old. Opinions change. Tastes change. Everything changes. I may still agree with or like this, or I may not. But everything is kept up here for archival purposes.
tough / November 17, 2005
I don’t go more than two days, without thinking of something I want to write here. Some of them are so prolific and meaningful, that it almost makes me feel intelligent. Some of it’s just pointless crap that’s pissing me off. Okay… some of the pointless crap ends up in the “…bites” section below. But that’s what it’s there for. All those personally meaningless little thoughts or stories. Trying to preserve the real estate at the top for something more personal. But part of my problem is that I’m my own worst audience. No one could hate my work as much as I do. Wether it’s something I design, or some picture I took, or some words I wrote… as long as I know they’re mine, I’m incredibly harsh towards them. And often when I’m thinking about writing, it’s as I walk around town. In just a block or two, I’ll have an entire entry written in my mind. And even assuming I do remember it by the time I get home, I’ll already start picking it over, and editing it to death. My best writing is stream of consciousness. Thinking with my fingers, I guess.
I mentioned design. Yay, I’m a designer! Even started my own studio. And ya know… design is really fucking hard for me. Long before I get to the above mentioned critiquing of my own work… it’s hard. Somewhere along the way, my mind decided that when it’s time to be professional, my otherwise highly creative thought processes go pfft… out the window. I have an extremely hard time getting into the mental space where I can do design work, as well. And when I travel? Forget it. No work I’ve ever done on the road was worth shit. I’m just obsessive enough to worry about every project. Each new job means that every drop of my energy, concentration, and … you know… brain juice, goes into that effort, for at least 4 days. It inevitably ends with me staring at an email telling myself to press Send so that I won’t be able to make any more changes. And as soon as I hear that whoosh of an outgoing email, a 20 pound weight drops from my chest. I bounce up from the chair, smiling, and looking for something to eat and someone to talk to. (Unfortunately, my friends have real jobs, and don’t want to talk at 3 in the afternoon or 2 in the morning). If I can keep a string of design work going, it kind of eases up. I can stay in the mental place I need for doing that work. The ideas continue to flow. But once I’ve shut it off… I have to go to all the work again of getting back there.
God, I so much prefer being a manager.
This, folks, by the way, is one of the most beautiful women I know:
That is all.
Hmmm… since the Juliette and the Licks show… what have I been doing? When the hell was that show? Mid-October, I think. So there was Halloween, of course. Went to Autumn’s party early in the evening, followed by chiarOscuro around 11. Both parties went better than expected, with opportunities for me to talk to several people I don’t get to see anywhere near as much as I’d like to. Think I’ve finished my last painting, since then, as well. Well… mostly finished. Still some small details I want to touch up. May send it to New York when it’s done, since that’s where the unwitting models live. Went to the Uruguayan Embassy for an art auction by a friend of a friend. Jill visited last weekend. No change since college. Still a tiny little ball of energy crying out “love me!”. Her visit led to me seeing Regina and Raphael for the first time in 5 (!) years. They’re still way too fucking cute.
Lot of work. Not a lot of money. I’m tired. In, oh, so many ways. But still… I’m here. And that something to start with.