And we’re back.
I published my blog
address on a different social media platform, and have felt the oblique embarrassment
in these days following. Since my last post I read among other things this
intro to “My life and Hard Times” by James Thurber- a copy of his book I picked
up at a thrift store in passing in Philadelphia on my last visit up. God, a
fair amount has happened since my last post. Mostly I feel like a schmuck. I’m
embarrassed by my privilege, and it seems especially fluorescent of late. James
Thurber, in his into writes about the pitfalls of the disoriented autobiographer-
making a quick box within which an ugly caricature is drawn. It kind of
deactivated me for a bit. I felt raw. He was right, what he said, and I still
don’t know really where to go from there, writing-wise. There’s something else-
I forgot who it was- someone said, something about how his writing and his
painting being in direct competition, so he ceased to write. This one’s a
little cockeyed for me, but I can nevertheless relate. For this quip I can
counter with a quote from Hemmingway, which has something to do with his
writing so much and so little as only to keep himself sane. That seems to suit
me. I feel inclined to write.
I live with my
parents now. I moved from Sarasota, North to Crystal River for an undetermined
amount of time. I’ve expanded my stuff into a studio in a kind of second half
of their house. They let me have it- this big studio space. I’m like a little
otter back there, running around, sorting, picking things up, little paintings,
drinking coffees and sodas and devoting unbridled attention to whichever
painting I end up in front of. I made a small burn pile for some
not-up-to-snuff paintings. Part of me knows that all of the paintings deserve
to go in that burn pile. Nothing that I make is any good- it just looks kind-of
practiced- it’s whack. For the amount that I’ve been painting, I do not feel particularly
smarter, or more cultured- I’m just nerdier for it. I guess the idea is that it’s
in the next painting. I’m going back to painting. In a little bit. There’s
still some stuff I gotta say. I don’t think I’ll be better off for spending
time at my folk’s house. It’s cool to know family and all, but it’s a little
whack to revert into childhood. I hope my parents can be nice to me while I’m
here- one less thing to worry about while I figure things out. I felt crazy,
like nuts, last night before bed, like totally disengaged, and like a waste.
This morning I slept in and felt really great upon waking. There’s a few paths,
there’s a non-engaged mooch, an engaged mooch (career, etc. – yuppies), and an
engaged citizen. (which citizen seems a little patriotic, but whatever). And the
difference here between a mooch and a citizen, is a some – god what the fuck am
I talking about? There’s something toxic in Crystal River which is funny. An
effect which has to do with relative IQ, and the lowered bar which subordinates
others to your opinions-as-facts. There are no shortages of locals who feel
qualified to look down their noses at you and deliver a contrived,
cable-television rhetoric at you. That’s some of the source of my second
guessing. God, I just feel toxic I guess. At least now I have a local library
card. I’m not having a good time here, regarding being a yuppie. I left
Ringling College, and am transferring to PAFA in the fall. What could I do
between now and then that might shake some of the yuppie off? Hike the goddamn
Appalachian Trail? That was a stupid question, alright, whatever, but, right? Build
a Habitat for humanity home is kind-of ringing loud and clear for me right now.
I think that’s all I have to say.
