It has been brought to my attention that content in this blog has been offensive. I'm sorry if I have offended you.
Today I woke with a slight hangover from drinking sugary wine and beer and bourbon in the same night. Today is my day-off from classes at BMC. I am in the middle of (three days left to go) of embodying the fluids system. I saw a show last night. The girl fronting the band was doing a bunch of played out stuff like she's seen from those who she aspires to. I guess that's to be expected. Actually, I've got little steam in me now to write this, I feel tired, and I guess all I do on here is be snarky and negative.
I've made some plein aire paintings in chalk pastel. In other news, I love Meghan and I'm going to take a walk now.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Over easy
I wrapped up the four commissioned abalone shell paintings for my mother. I hope she likes them.
I packed my hiking backpack full of mostly books, and loaded my friend Overstreet's car with the wrapped up commissions. He drove me to a FedEx store, where I shipped two of the boxes to theri respective destinations. The third box, a homemeade box, did not make the cut in terms of box excellencerequired by the fed ex corpotation. I offered to make another box out of some cardboard stock that the had lying in the back, but to no avail; our cashier at some point had put her foot down and decided that she was not going to ship the homemade box no matter what. (unless SHE re-boxxed it in a wardrobe box for 24$. Street and I walked out and took our package to the post office, where we had no problem shipping it. Back at the spot, I had a glass of rum and coke with Patrick before getting another ride with Overstreet, this time to the Amtrak station.
My train left at 11:13. I'd bought a ticket for the wrong date digitally, but the kind man at the reception desk changed the ticket for me for a small (relatively), fee. I slept through the night, despite amtrak haveing the most uncomfortable seats in the world. In the morning, I went to the cafe' car. In line before me was a woman who I learned to be Dana. I ordered my food, and coffe, "I'll have what she's having". She was having a terrible muffin and a coffee. We sat near each other and made light introductions on the account of relating to one another about the poor quality of the muffins served on Amtrak. She invited me to sit across from her at a table at some point and talked with me about my education, and her experiences with working for Make a Wish Foundation, and her experiences as a healer (though she didn't use the word, I believe that is one way of describing her work) and caretaker to clients with mental disorders. She was kind and patient. Her business card says, 'Compassionate Home Care & Companionship'. She explained having to flip one of her clients over in bed and how she took a drive with the same client during a time of extreme mental discomfort. She drove him to where she grew up, near a country club pool somewhere in North Carolina. It was snowing and very beautiful. "I'm dying." he said.
Sometime during conversation, I missed my stop, and upon returning to my seat was enlightened to the fact by a frustrated railcar worker. "Yer on yer own boss", he said.
I got off at the next stop, in a town called Rocky Mountain. I checked my large hiking backpack in the station and went for a unicycle ride with my daypack to find the library, from which I write to you now. On the way I stopped into a little diner that served everything on styrofoam. I ordered and ate two eggs over easy, grits, and toast with a water. The interior of the diner was light with American Gothic wooden booths with tall backs. Light shown in through the window to my right. I lifted a fork from the set of white plastic cutlery from a white napkin, and stuck it into the center of a white egg beside white grits. I loved seeing the golden yolk, and mixing in the red hot sauce too. I left a five dollar bill and thanked the kind server.
I packed my hiking backpack full of mostly books, and loaded my friend Overstreet's car with the wrapped up commissions. He drove me to a FedEx store, where I shipped two of the boxes to theri respective destinations. The third box, a homemeade box, did not make the cut in terms of box excellencerequired by the fed ex corpotation. I offered to make another box out of some cardboard stock that the had lying in the back, but to no avail; our cashier at some point had put her foot down and decided that she was not going to ship the homemade box no matter what. (unless SHE re-boxxed it in a wardrobe box for 24$. Street and I walked out and took our package to the post office, where we had no problem shipping it. Back at the spot, I had a glass of rum and coke with Patrick before getting another ride with Overstreet, this time to the Amtrak station.
My train left at 11:13. I'd bought a ticket for the wrong date digitally, but the kind man at the reception desk changed the ticket for me for a small (relatively), fee. I slept through the night, despite amtrak haveing the most uncomfortable seats in the world. In the morning, I went to the cafe' car. In line before me was a woman who I learned to be Dana. I ordered my food, and coffe, "I'll have what she's having". She was having a terrible muffin and a coffee. We sat near each other and made light introductions on the account of relating to one another about the poor quality of the muffins served on Amtrak. She invited me to sit across from her at a table at some point and talked with me about my education, and her experiences with working for Make a Wish Foundation, and her experiences as a healer (though she didn't use the word, I believe that is one way of describing her work) and caretaker to clients with mental disorders. She was kind and patient. Her business card says, 'Compassionate Home Care & Companionship'. She explained having to flip one of her clients over in bed and how she took a drive with the same client during a time of extreme mental discomfort. She drove him to where she grew up, near a country club pool somewhere in North Carolina. It was snowing and very beautiful. "I'm dying." he said.
Sometime during conversation, I missed my stop, and upon returning to my seat was enlightened to the fact by a frustrated railcar worker. "Yer on yer own boss", he said.
I got off at the next stop, in a town called Rocky Mountain. I checked my large hiking backpack in the station and went for a unicycle ride with my daypack to find the library, from which I write to you now. On the way I stopped into a little diner that served everything on styrofoam. I ordered and ate two eggs over easy, grits, and toast with a water. The interior of the diner was light with American Gothic wooden booths with tall backs. Light shown in through the window to my right. I lifted a fork from the set of white plastic cutlery from a white napkin, and stuck it into the center of a white egg beside white grits. I loved seeing the golden yolk, and mixing in the red hot sauce too. I left a five dollar bill and thanked the kind server.
Jacksonville/ Sucksonville
SO here I am again back in Jacksonville. It feels almost embarrassing to be back. I only said goodbye two weeks ago and each time is like another round of "see you on the other side's". I am working on a commission from my mother of four abalone shell paintings. One of them is a triptych to go above her bed and the fourth is a three by four footer to go above a couch in a beach condo. I have been instructed to hold the purple on the beach condo painting, but to let 'er rip on the triptych. Four days or so into the paintings, I was ready to call it done on the couch painting and destroy the triptych. I painted over the triptych with exception to a vertical element that I though was working well. The idea is to blend the elements together now. I stayed up all night last night. I felt very restless come bedtime, in part from the fireworks. It was the fourth of July, and the riverside neighborhood seemed dangerous. I took a walk to see if I could festive up, but walking out of the door of the warehouse where I was making the paintings was like landing on an alien planet. As a human, raised American, I had pretext to the 'celebration', but did not feel any benefits. Walking through neighborhood streets, I would round a corner to witness a firestorm.
I felt sad. Back at the studio, I hunkered down and read through The Catcher in the Rye, and a little bit of Night.
I feel that in this commission I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. That is, I have liberated myself from responsibility and then... God, my writing is terrible today. I can't help but think of J. D. Salinger's cadence while I write now.
I don't like the feeling particularly of being away from Meghan right now. I think it is silly to put this commission from my mother ahead of my connection to this wonderful woman that I feel. I think about how this falls into another string of occurrences of my mother getting in between not only my love life, but also my spiritual path. I'm not trying to project this, it's just that it's on my mind. I'm in love. It's a miracle. But I have this commission for a bedroom triptych for my mother that's holding me to Jacksonville I feel. I don't know or care what goes on in my parents bedroom, though once I heard them doing their thing the night we moved into a house in Tallahassee. I had school the next day. I felt happy for them in a way. At one time, I thought they were going to get a divorce. Maybe they should have. Here I am, their son saying these things. But there's a perpetually unacknowledged thing between them I feel. Like on the first date I imagine it was there. This I think it what is called 'chemistry', 'our chemistry', 'their chemistry'. Its a dynamic, perpetually in check but unmoving. The light at the end of the tunnel is a train departing tomorrow night, after I postmark the paintings, in whatever state they are in, to my parents house.
Right now I am thinking to not go to school at Ringling. Reading Catcher in the Rye last night was enlightening but like all great arcs of thought, in my experience, left me with the same problems in the end. Does Ringling represent the school in which Holden Caufiled came from, or that which he writes from? The alternative plan (or the placeholder plan for now) is to learn German in Berlin, then apply for a visa to attend German art school on staat money. I have been reading German for the past couple months and starting to tooth in. Mostly, somehow, I want to be anonymous. Actually, the Catcher in the Rye book was dangerously close to how I feel about, everything. Maybe I'm just easily influenced. But his running into the woods plan sounds right to me.
I talked with Shaun today. We went out to lunch. He's funny because he will tell you that art is useless, or in the long run, not necessary. I agree. Here I am making couch matching paintings, though mostly complaining about it. Library's closing. Long story short, art is a product of excess. It is beautiful, like religion, but calorie for calorie, a waste.
Love y'all.
So simultaneously, I want to just pay off Ringling, just to have someone else holding on to my college money. But there, in the middle of the sentence, though I finished it for continuity's sake, is where I get hung up. Ringling, it feels like an arranged marriage, and I the dowry holder. I am unsure of what I am paying for. But to go would be to know.
I felt sad. Back at the studio, I hunkered down and read through The Catcher in the Rye, and a little bit of Night.
I feel that in this commission I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. That is, I have liberated myself from responsibility and then... God, my writing is terrible today. I can't help but think of J. D. Salinger's cadence while I write now.
I don't like the feeling particularly of being away from Meghan right now. I think it is silly to put this commission from my mother ahead of my connection to this wonderful woman that I feel. I think about how this falls into another string of occurrences of my mother getting in between not only my love life, but also my spiritual path. I'm not trying to project this, it's just that it's on my mind. I'm in love. It's a miracle. But I have this commission for a bedroom triptych for my mother that's holding me to Jacksonville I feel. I don't know or care what goes on in my parents bedroom, though once I heard them doing their thing the night we moved into a house in Tallahassee. I had school the next day. I felt happy for them in a way. At one time, I thought they were going to get a divorce. Maybe they should have. Here I am, their son saying these things. But there's a perpetually unacknowledged thing between them I feel. Like on the first date I imagine it was there. This I think it what is called 'chemistry', 'our chemistry', 'their chemistry'. Its a dynamic, perpetually in check but unmoving. The light at the end of the tunnel is a train departing tomorrow night, after I postmark the paintings, in whatever state they are in, to my parents house.
Right now I am thinking to not go to school at Ringling. Reading Catcher in the Rye last night was enlightening but like all great arcs of thought, in my experience, left me with the same problems in the end. Does Ringling represent the school in which Holden Caufiled came from, or that which he writes from? The alternative plan (or the placeholder plan for now) is to learn German in Berlin, then apply for a visa to attend German art school on staat money. I have been reading German for the past couple months and starting to tooth in. Mostly, somehow, I want to be anonymous. Actually, the Catcher in the Rye book was dangerously close to how I feel about, everything. Maybe I'm just easily influenced. But his running into the woods plan sounds right to me.
I talked with Shaun today. We went out to lunch. He's funny because he will tell you that art is useless, or in the long run, not necessary. I agree. Here I am making couch matching paintings, though mostly complaining about it. Library's closing. Long story short, art is a product of excess. It is beautiful, like religion, but calorie for calorie, a waste.
Love y'all.
So simultaneously, I want to just pay off Ringling, just to have someone else holding on to my college money. But there, in the middle of the sentence, though I finished it for continuity's sake, is where I get hung up. Ringling, it feels like an arranged marriage, and I the dowry holder. I am unsure of what I am paying for. But to go would be to know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)