Yesterday’s dream (again) was about rolling black and grey earth- soil.
This morning’s dream was centered around Ringing College. What a strange place. Carl Johnson’s facsimile said something along the lines of ‘how fortunate we are that in the morning, the bright red door is not red at all- it’s pink.’ And Patrick Lindhart’s facsimile expressed joy in my half drank opened beer. My mother and I went to New York, with some classmates maybe, to some industrial yuppie-ilex, which I’d seen on my timeline on snapchat and thought ‘those kids are lame, and those shirts, etc.’. the Yuppie-plex was brimming with designer junk. Screen printed Japonisme shirts abound. My mom, I told her to watch her things, because she’d left them out on some table of accessories and they blended in. She went over and sought to pick up her wallet, while another woman, a trope of the fingerey shopper, picked up her purse and began to open it up. My mother intercepted the purse, breaking a social rule by taking it from the woman’s hands. There was a cute heroine figure, who came through. She had a roommate that was lesbian, and she herself was one to hold her cards close. I knew I could get her. I played the game some. Meanwhile, there was a real game going on too. My heroine figure was in fact a cheerleader/ competitor. The game was a ring-hip game like that of the ancient Aztecs, though in the dream there appeared no players or action. The world toggled between completely submerged and a still like in a De Ciricho painting. I stayed on a red-clay roof, doing some asinine job of some kind. There was a teacher figure dictating my instructions. I had to clean gutters it seemed. Also present were an army of students, ready to become players in the game-to-be. The heroine had outlines on her face that came off and transcended her, like a Picasso cubist composition. She seemed to mean everything.
It’s not been easy nurturing this fire in my heart. Something’s changed. I wonder if it is because I feel sick, or because I feel no longer tied to Ringling that I find it hard to get moving on assignments. Last night, at 2am, I thought ‘it’s probably these eighteen hour days, though in the past it was more like an event than a chore- now it’s like a chore. Here’s my schedule:
M- 8a-6p Printmaking, Illustration, Figure Drawing, out at six
T- 8a-10p Digital Ill, Glass Casting, FEWS
W- 8a-12p Painting, Painting, (painting), lab monitor
Th- ditto monday
F- ditto tuesday, studio time into late
Sa- day off, Fews
Su- Clean up, reset, studio time into late.
This is the way I can do school this semester, and there’s hardly room for breaks. I love it when I’m manic. I feel like school has given up on me, or I on it. Both really. Yesterday I explained why I wanted to go to PAFA- it seemed to get at some new thoughts- “it just seems to make sense. I’m 26 now, and Philadelphia, I think will be a good spot to graduate from with a bachelor’s, at 28- I’ll already in a way be somewhere. The museums are good, the lineage is good,” (I didn’t say that lineage part, but it’s there) ,”New models, new teachers, different teachers, different techniques, a good big library, that kind of stuff. Also, we’ll always be friends, especially if you keep painting- the connection’s been made- we’re going to see each other again and I can’t wait! I see the groups here at Ringling, and I know what jobs we’re competing for, and I would like to work for one of these places too but, it’s like, the factions have already been made, and I don’t feel really ‘in the club’, you know?” So, in that regard too, it might be good to move away.
