Angie's Boyfriend, and my narrow account

So after gathering that this was Angie’s new boyfriend (without trying to insinuate herein that Angie ‘goes through’ boyfriends) I figure I’d ask, and introduce myself maybe. So I asked him, turning to him, “Are you Angie’s boyfriend?” My manners were not in great health, but my wit was fine, and my manners never got me anywhere worth being anyways. He gave the right answer, hesitating briefly, then following through with an ‘if that’s what you like to call it, yes’. I said, “oh, good, sorry. I was trying to piece it all together here, as I heard that you weren’t a freshman, and your card doesn’t work to open the door, so you’re not a fine arts major. Anyway, hey, I’m Robert Kemeys.” and I reached out my hand for an introduction, and he reached his out and there was some guilt that seemed to be stuck to his hand, or something. There was a hesitation- maybe he’d masturbated. Maybe he’d eaten a bunch of cheetos. Maybe it was some alpha male, are we about to fight thing, I’m not sure, but when we clasped hands, it was all bone, and I wondered if I’d been off-putting. The handshake was vary much a formality, and once over, he and I tried to make do. He didn’t reply with his name, or with anything other than ‘hi’, so I had no idea what to call him, and he remained a symbol of an undergraduate place-holder boyfriend. This saddens me, but is not the worst. I disclosed to Angie that I think of him as a place-holder, before I’d met him, and now I’d met him, and we’re off to a questionable start. So I turn back to my table with my crafts on it, and begin to go back into studio mode, and try to tune out the conversation of my friends while I work, and he is watching me work bit. We’re all stuck in this space now where I don’t know his name, he’s got some other things on his mind, regarding the level of my friendship with Angie perhaps, or something like that, and I’m stuck working, which isn’t the worst thing, but it’s strange to be looked at while your’e doing it, without engagement, and he’s maintaining conversation with Angie, which as far as I can piece together, has to do with which airline he most frequently flies on when he travels to different music festivals. A good stopping point for me came sooner rather than later, and I left the two to have their time together as a couple, that they might get to the bottom of just which airline he has traveled by the most intercontinentally. 

I went to the gym and fake-rowed my brains out, then took a shower, really seeing the shower at some point, having a conscious experience, and off to bed, where I read my phone for an hour. I don’t get many calls, or texts, or emails. I think of this song, there’s a line which sings ‘the phone, it rings no more’. and it has to do I imagine with the songwriter’s life, and how as a lifelong performer, he no longer gets hit up for gigs, but this back-story makes it all the more valuable to my retro-fitting, because I’m in a most strange spot, a spot which I knew I’d be in (that I’d decided upon years back, in my bedroom in tallahassee, after I’d sold my bed and car. My phone, it rings no more, but it’s not because I’m old and all of the gigs are done, or that no-one is interested in me. It’s because I have an addiction, and because I don’t participate in group-think. I have alienated myself. I’ll fuck, but I’ll come on your belly, kind of thing. I’m a (self-aware) fuckboy. 

Any of my girl troubles stem from my self. Im a satyr, as one of my lovers put it. I thought she was a symbol for all evil. She, with a capital S. I thought that I’d be roped in to an eternity with her, and we’d participate in worldly gains, and reproduction, but alas at some point it was done, and we went our separate ways. I, turns out, chased some new tail out of town, and that pretty well sealed the deal. It’s funny, I don’t even think about my actions outside of an immediately justifiable context. Thus, spells are broken and morals reside in a flexible-if-not subjective space, as Kant and Neitszche would have liked it. So that makes me an untrustworthy person- the mark of Cain, as I recall what I read in Demian by Herman Hesse, which has to do with aligning to a most-high, most-ancient god (to be speculated by the reader as to whether it’s satan or not). It’s a great book, Demian. It’s like Faust, except the allegiance is ambiguous. So pan was a satyr- a man-beast, who would fornicate, and dance, and drink, and make music, and all around make things wonderful, pleasuring women and such- and that’s me. He would also run away into the dense foliage, to disappear indefinitely- and that’s me too.

Often I feel like a pariah. 

SO this morning, I woke from a dream pertaining to cooperation it seems somehow. (I didn’t wake up with visuals to recall, but a kind of feeling lingered of being a part of something, or having a place at least. This doesn’t have to go against my statement about being a pariah). Here’s some of what I’ve written already today, transposed from a sketchpad: 

There’s at least two ways I could write this. 

This morning was cool because I woke up naturally. At first, I didn’t do anything about it. What a gift! To wake up with the sun! This I believe is holiness! But I rolled over and succumbed to sleep until my alarm woke meep. What a strange night, I thought, and a strange yesterday. I met a boyfriend to a friend of mine- a dear friend. I’d told her my only hesitation as to leaving Ringing would be leaving her, and that was true. I didn’t get the boyfriend’s name. I introduced myself with a handshake, somewhat of an artificial gesture after his entering the room (where Angie and I were working on illustration projects, the sculpture lab, where Angie was clocked into, as an employee) and plopped down next to Angie and began chatting her up. …. blah blah

SO the two ways I could write this are as either a self-involved asshole who recognizes that others are in their own self-involved narratives, or as a self-involved asshole who has got the blinders on (willingly/knowingly or not), writing frantically as to validate his self-importance. 

I woke up this morning and after some time farting, and rolling around, and thinking of all the girls I’d loved before, I just kind of thought, ‘well, that’s one account of one life, in one perspective’, and that adds up to a very narrow picture indeed. So I recognize ( to my capability) that I’m just an asshole in a room thinking about the story that I’m in the middle of composing, about myself and how others are in relation to me, and I think at some point, of all the other assholes, in their rooms, farting and rolling around, (thanks Bukowski) and thinking about the world in relation to themselves, and that’s what got me out of bed this morning. There’s some thing I read yesterday too, that helped make this kind of a funny discovery, and that was some quote I read before I went to bed. It was something along the lines of: ‘The funny thing is, about this paradox, that only in acceptance of who I am, I am ready and able to change’. 

New Document

Eggs, Scrambled

I've had scrambled eggs for brains for the past week or so. It had to do with my ex-girlfreind contacting me. I love her very much. Emma.

She did a good job hitting me up. She was trying to help maybe, I'm not sure, by giving me advice as to what to invest in. She said I should buy a house, or that we should buy a house. I've already written about this so I won't go in too much.

I have been eating alone. I have been paintings alone, and reading alone, and I think other students have taken notice. At the dining hall, sometimes I am with a plate of food, and some writing materials, or a book, and I'll be approached, by another student, offering for me to join them (fingers pointing accross the dining hall to another table) 'over there'. I accept, and go have food with these friends. It's sweet, but not very relevant to the writing that I feel I need to get out, or the reading that I need to get done, to feel at ease, or prepared for things to come. So I go chat up these friends, and eat some food, then we all break off, and I go back to reading or writing.

The other night, (and I was burning through paper writing, documenting dreams, and thoughts and trying altogether to get to a resolve regarding my feelings for Emma, and regarding domesticating, and fantasizing, and going back and forth, and reading and reading into things very deeply, like under a spell. I was exhausting possibilities, and exhausting myself), I was sitting at a high-top table for dinner, with a sketchbook and mechanical pencil, writing and coming up for air every so-often, and a friend came up to me. This is a classmate first and foremost, we are friends too, but we don't often talk, we just work together in Illustration department as fellow students. So he comes up to me and starts small talk, which at this point, I've become a little used to- this patronizing, which comes from a sweet place, and I see him begin to tear up. He's nearly crying, like he's saying goodbye to his dog. I think the whole thing a little funny altogether, though there's a desperation to him, and the roles have kind of changed, where I thought I was the outsider figure, not understood, alone, or whatever, now he, took on the look of a lost child. So I ventured as far as to ask if he was alright, and he said, 'yeah', and it seemed like a great flood was forthcoming. Then a couple others came over, his friends, and engaged in some banter, and playful talk, and at some point he kind-of said, 'gotta go', and I said, 'sure thing, have a good night', and I didn't write much after that, I stared into space a bit, thinking if I'd seen an illusion, or what. How strange. So I packed up my things, took my plate to the dish pit, then back to the apartment, where, along the way, I developed intense emotions and a sense of a spinning world, like a ship in big waves, so cliché. I got a kind of tunnel vision, and there were tears on the way, and I invited them. I was flush, my thesis coming to a head. I felt a strong sense of a narrowing in my mind, the blood behind my eyes became a hot and glowing tunnel, where through like sitting at the throne of the mind of a chameleon, flashbulbs exposed snapshots of my deteriorating reality. I was giving up in a way, and it hurt. I was tormented by my ignorance- for what was all this fantasizing about in the first place? When I think of another, more domestic life, I think of a studio, a place where I spend most of my hours, and my wife, whom I am devoted to. I think of ourselves like knobby trees, whose knots and branches through time have grown in respectful relation to one another, that we not block light from one another, and that upon embracing, we feel an interlocking. I think of a carrot patch, as if that's all we need, carrots. I think of a front door, with a big painting on it- something graphic- recently thinking, it would be a three legged frog, borrowed from Korean images, depicting a symbol if prosperity, he which lives in the moon, and swallows it during the eclipse. I think of knees and hips and elbows, and how they grow and become old, and dying later on, but not yet. I really nursed the tears along, I knew I had a reserve of sad thoughts that could wet my cheeks, and I went into those a bit- these deal with the people I've let down. Those emotions seemed topical, though, in relation to the big feeling of general craziness, what to get so caught up in possible futures, as to load my present with make or break stakes, and high stakes, all imagined. I wanted to cry, and I did. I don't know how many of the tears were real and how many were a product of me wanting to cry, to find relief, so maybe all of them were real, but that's characteristic of me- watching myself experience, and questioning all the time as to it's validity, or legitimacy. Sometimes I think I do twice the thinking, and am getting twice the intellectualization, and am getting twice as smart. And sometimes I feel good about my self and my standings, or how I stand up and such, and other times, and what had me in a pseudo-genuine eddy of emotion, was the feeling of simultaneously feeling bad and also that I could not feel bad enough truly- in part because feeling bad is not a matter of trying, just like love is not a matter of trying. There is a lot of effort involved in a relationship, truly, but love is (hippie), all there is, and at the end of a storm comes light, though some trees might have been felled. Wow I'm full of 'em today.

So called Emma, as the tears were drying but I was still sensitive, but unshakeable, like after orgasm. I thought it would be a good time to call. Before I called I did that thing where I looked around the room and it all seemed very clear and raw and plastic. She answered, and I asked how she was, and I told her I'd been going crazy and that I just cried a bunch, and she asked me why and I said because I can't have nice things, and that was true. I'm all wrapped up in environmentalism- I spend a lot of time with it, eating less personally, using less, using things not directly sourced from nature (second-hand, however), and that's something I see more of but not enough of. And Emma said, 'but you don't want nice things', and I was stuck.

To do

To get me started I'll call this post 'to do' , as I could use some form of organizing this and my thoughts, and this blog seems like a good place to do that.

SO I'm taking Painting three, with Stephanie Henderson. She is cool. She's a bug time illustrator, as in, she has big things going on. She's strong. I've got to go to the Ringling museum tomorrow, in the morning would be a good time, or maybe in the afternoon, whichever. Maybe look at paintings in the morning, then go outside and paint in the afternoon, That could be good, because I'll probably (maybe) drink tonight, then wake Ideally at 9 or nine thirty, or ten, then either, dream, or meditate, or read, or write, hopefully not buy anything, and get a brunch at Hammond Commons (the dining hall). From there, maybe to Bayou 2 via an unlock from Security, to retrieve my French Easel, wherefrom, I will head straight to the Ringling Museum- might as well- with a fresh panel (in Backpack already) to make a pleinair study (or two). Photographs will need to be taken, consider a tiny color study, to prepare for abstraction et al.

It may behoove you to look up some methods on glazing. Once you've got an idea of what pigments old masters used, you could go back in to that (while thing, or) background of that Ermine DaVinci cover-painting. (what didi DaVinci use to glaze, and glaze, making flat shadows, and complex darks), then you're off. It is also important that you go fat when you do this (these) glazes, so that the painting won't fall off, or crack, or that it will dry, but not with an unsatisfactory finish- in time to apply a presentation-worthy varnish on it before it hangs tentatively on the display case for Mike Hodges' class portrait showcase. Photograph and email mike the finished (or in process if you want) painting, that he and I may zero-in on the show.

Another pertinent thing to do is to make the illustrator spot illustration for digital illustration class- this is not so far from exactly why you got into- really into- this (or at least, by one recollection)- that time you were living in a car and reading Snow Leopard and illustrating text passages. So, this Shakespeare prompt could be a dead end, might be, so it would be good to read each of the articles, rather than just the shakespeare, to check out if there's greener grass, or more fertile soil maybe.

Something of a big decision to be made is that one pertaining to moving to Philadelphia. This is the latest in the series of big ideas- well not the latest, second to latest. The latest one is buying a house, (or some complex) with Emma, fifty fifty, to be slumlords together, and attain cash flow. She's smart, and someone I would frankly marry. I like her as a friend, even though we are very different from one another. She's compassionate. So the house-thing is not so far-fetched- it's something that I've thought about for a handful of years now, and I wonder who I would be (in past, present, and future tense) if that be the decision I come/came/will come to. It's whatever. Emma said I'm so airy, and she's right I was ready to put out the cash for a house after like a text message. It's a wonder I get anything done at all, but here I am, with no life, and a drive for learning about art, and the world, and I also wax poetic, and want to be a farmer, or something useful, so I was happy to have Emma as someone who could tell me very flatly that I was airy, and that it works well for me. She has great perception.

So the second to latest thing, which is more probable, and in line with the line I've been making- less schizo- is going through with application for PAFA, the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, in Philadelphia. It's the oldest school in the country etc., and it looks like their painting facutly is legit, and can teach about painting, and the recourses are good and the location is good, and the structure is different, and the housing is off- location, and the library seems good, and the school is built on top of a couple museums, and there's a first-edition cast collection below one of museums for students to draw, and at some point down there too they bring in a big horse, for the darwing class to draw from, and the meals (company-store dining) are not built in, but there's bagel shops all around, and the gym isn't built in, but there's a big city to walk, and gyms all around, and a Rodin Museum, and a old-rich collector's house full of paintings to see, and history, and intellectuals, and just at the end of the day, something new. Also per-semester it would be cheaper than where I go. I was just up there for a few days in the Winter Break, to talk about switching to their school, and it would be cool. I've already done something like this- it may even be me in the habit of uprooting, since my introduction of the concept from my family, growing up. Anyway, the decision os not-so-hard, to stay or to go, because I want to go- I think I would do great there, and benefit from actually learning how to paint, and to speak with smart people about what to paint about and what my paintings are about, and all that kind of stuff.

SO to get there, I have to arrange my files, to submit as portfolio, and to write my essay, explaining what I want to go there for, and email my teachers (after the weekend, and after talking with then, perhaps reading them my essay about what I want in an art school, or snippets, so the package becomes comprehensive) about writing for me a (two) letters of recommendation.

I should photograph (this weekend) then cut up that sculpture via a cut-off grinder.

I've got to do that new illustrator project, but not before class the next day, as the teacher hasn't formally assigned (posted) it.

It would be good to go onto the website for painting class, to study the new paintings (and horse paintings). Photograph and email DV copy to Stephanie, to ask about next steps, and photograph (bring from north studios) all of the studies done-thus-far in Bayou2. Store those things in there too- the North Studios is a little lame for painting.

Think about screen printing, ( I am ), and about what you want to do (design, in illustrator) regarding color, spot or shape, and subject matter. Consider that thing in the sketchbook. Scan that thing and Vectorize it- value, then color that thing.

Go in to Glass casting when the time comes- no rush- to seal-up that cracked mold, to prepare for the kiln.

Saturday after returning from the Museum painting, treat yourself to a night of figure drawing gestures at FEWS. Bring the money packet, and get it at the end of the night too.

Either keep going or crash, whichever.

Wake up Sunday thinking about Monday's print-making class in the morning, then Illustration final crit(s), then figure class (whereafter it may be good to talk with Carl about that letter of rec), wherealso charcoal and mix-media are the media. Be prepared for Monday by being prepared on Sunday.

Tuesday comes digital, where I should have the spot done, and where I should dive in to the portrait assignment. I't might be good to do a self-portrait. Then glass-casting. Maybe on this day, run the money up to finance for a FEWS deposit. Pratt or old Brit as options. Figure draw long pose in the evening.

Wednseday morning- painting class (what's going on ? Where are we going?) The canvasses (surfaces) have been gessoed, it would be good to have those paintings done (the little masters, the mid-size master) and the bay one- these she wants to see, and also she has yet to see any of my paintings this semester. There's a possibility that if I do not show her that I am working sometime soon, I may fail the midterm, and fail the course- show some work. It would also be a vary good idea to actually go to the museum tomorrow- it's the surest way that your museum-stunt (skipping that part of class, to work on that monotype book) go forgiven, or at least, explained. That's a wrong-to-be-righted with my painting teacher, for sure.

Same thing with the digital class- the wrong-to-right is turning in the spot that was due (whoops,) yesterday.

Feels good to write.

Wednesday evening, go to bring the thing  to FEWS< then to work at the North Studio.

I'm getting herpes in my nose again, this fuckin sucks.

That's most of it. Paint tomorrow, then draw, then paint, then the next day do all of the print-services stuff after an illustrator morning, then finish-up the work for the images, then photograph them.

Maybe look at internet sites, maybe dip into personal work, and maybe chip away at Pafa stuff.

Finish Noa Noa and give that to Angie.

Thanksgiving

I just got back from Thanksgiving break. Well, not just, but about five hours ago. I invited both Angie and Yaou, both chinese women ( fellow Ringling students) to come along with me. Yaou bailed out on the plans at the last minute. I could tell she was nervous to do so, but as a fellow flake, I understood, and we moved on. So it was back to just Angie and I after that, and we took off to visit my grandmother's house in Vero Beach. The college  has become very demanding as it goes towards the end of the semester. There's a kid right now as I type, flooding the bathroom, it's bothering me. He's showering, fuck, I'm going to go back in there and check if he fixed the problem..
.. alright, yeah, goddam kid, fuck. I told him that his shower was leaking, knocked on his stall, told him. He turned off the shower and said, "oh, okay". I said, "alright", then began heading out the bathroom, and I heard the shower turn back on. So he'd disregarded what I said, then I came into this room to write, and got all heated, and went back. And lo and behold the water had gone from the shower out into the hallway, and was making a larger pool on the carpet, and he's in there still 'showering', which a shower doesn't take much we all know. What a fucking idiot. So I knock on his stall again, "hey buddy! Your water leak has now extended into the hallway. You should change stalls, or get out." And he masked his voice when he replied, in a lower tone, like trying to sound more 'manly'. "Oh, yeah, oh, okay."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
"Have you become drunk?"
"No. Cold"
I let the silence hang..
"Oh, yeah, yeah I see what the problem is. The drain isn't draining. I took the cover off, and it's clogged."
"Im going to call maintenance to let them know about the water on the floor, and then I'm going to bed."
"Alright", he said in his masked voice. What a coward. I know who it is too, he rooms across from me, and After I placed the call to maintenance and came to bed, I heard that door open and close as he slithered in before the maintenance crew could see him, but certainly after I had gone into my room. School wouldn't be so hard if the students had been raised right. What makes school nearly unbearable is cowards like this. I digress.

I'm twetny-six, which feels silly sometimes. I love to work, and there's not much harder work than this illustration program, if done right (fat). I sometimes (often, and since I was about fifteen) felt like I was rotting, spoiling. A lingering lack of application, that makes me feel useless. I really hate it here. Sometimes, I get to working, and I have a good day, but it's like some big simulator, and having a great day within a simulation is downright depressing. It was cool to see family. Just my parents, and surviving grandparents were present, along  with me and Angie, it was perfect- no kids, no racist uncles, just old people and us. It was very manageable, and a respectful environment- we could even talk about politics together. I'm reading some Nietzsche, from his 'book' Will to Power. It's interesting, and is helping me to see more pragmatically. It's hard to sound smart beyond saying that I'm reading it so I'll move along. I had a most wonderful time with Angie. I became very nervous about the trip just before we took off. I told her I was nervous- she guessed. Before we got in the car (she'd gotten in, then I, then I asked that we get out and talk about the trip), I smoked a cigarette, and I asked. "Okay, so Vero is three hours east, straight shot. We'll get a hotel when we get there. Would you like your own room, or one room for both of us? Or two beds or one big bed?" She kind-of said "I mean, whichever." "Um, okay. Alright. So probably one room. So, what if I walk around in my underwear?" "That's fine." "Nudity?" "Whatever." "Alright, okay." And so we went, and a minute in she asked if I was nervous, and I said yes, really nervous, and she asked about what, and I said I don't know, I guess expectation, and family, and I guess I don't want to be a creep, and we moved on to some other topic, all smoothly and without awkwardness. When we pulled into town, and I'd thought I would look for a hotel somewhere comparing and such, we came to a 'Knight's Inn', and Angie said, "That one.", and it was perfect, problem solved- we knew where we were staying. The hotel room was nice, nothing to it. We watched some television. I got down to my underwear after a shower, and spent a little time laying out atop the covers until I felt e'r more naked, and put on some shorts. It's hard to say what Angie was doing, not much of anything- simple things- reading on her laptop, changing the channel. We'd read for a long time in silence beside each other for a long time me Nietzsche and her some thing on her computer. Everything felt very natural. I was really loving our time together- nothing to it. She did the cute thing of falling asleep all-the sudden, and I turned off the tv and looked up at the ceiling a bit, and concentrated and went into my pre-sleep routine (in which, on my back I nod-off, having a vivid dream that climaxes somehow, rendering me awake again, as if my body is saying 'no-no, it's not safe to sleep on the back, though you're tired, it's time now to roll over', and I roll over onto my still flat-ish belly and take the large portion of sleep for the night). We woke late, around eleven. We hadn't touched in the night, we kept our distinct sides of the bed, as that's how we sleep. We talked a bit in the morning. She went into the shower, and I walked down the street a bit to get two black coffees and two hash-browns from McDonald's. When I came back, I think she was already dressed, and if not, it was not a song-and-a-dance of a dressing, and we sipped our coffees and she read on her computer, and she'd suggested I maintain my instagram, so I sat nearby her and went through people that I follow and deleted more than two thirds of 'em, until I was done, and it was nearly time for Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma's house, so we drove there. The food was perfect. Home cooking, the choicest dishes. Conversation got off to a pleasantly slow start, and devolved into what we'd heard on our respective news shows, and suspicions about what the future holds and what the government does. Angie sat quietly, and when asked gave a most appropriate answer as to what we were discussing, noting the eddying effect of media, which aims to make capital off its consumers. She really swept the whole board on that one, and that's about all that needed to be said. She was received well, and then the others mostly went back to talking about their suspicions, because they're old and idly talking helps pass the time. A cousin was coming over it was announced after considerable time digesting and talking and going through photos of my sister's first baby, and she would bring her two kids. This was like a fuse lit, and Angie and I made our exit as to not have to make introductions, or deal with kids. We drove to the hotel to change clothes, and to grab alcohol, and then we drove to the beach, where we found a dark spot by the grasses, and looked out at the sea and each drank a bottled beer. I lit a cigarette, and we passed my jacket back and forth between us in intervals. The beers became drank, and we got up and Angie went to use the bathroom in some restaurant, and I asked if she wanted a beer and she said yes, so I got a beer and we rendezvoused outside to drink it, and I chain smoked and told her about a handful of times I'd turned gay for a bit. We had a good time, and I got another beer for us to share, then we drove back to the motel. I got naked at the motel and slid under the sheets. I said "I'm naked." and she said with a tone, "Oh boy.", and that's all that came of that. Iput some shorts on. She turned on some movie called Mr. Nobody, and we watched the whole thing. At some point in the movie I got out my drawing pad, and we passed it back and forth on a collaborative drawing. We went to sleep at some point. My father planned to plant a mango tree in Eula's yard, because there was a perfect space for one, and I'd said that I'd meet him up in the morning when he called me, but lo come morning, I was very tired, and set him a text saying so, and he planted it himself. I didn't know whether to wake Angie or not, as it approached ten, then ten-thirty. I placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a rub- nothing. Then a small arm rub, nothing, then little kisses on her hand, which wrapped around her shoulder as she faced away from  me, sleeping- still nothing. I said, "Hello Angie, hello.", and with that she came to. I was so excited to see her. I got on top of her, and rolled with her across the bed, and we had a quick laugh, then knowing how late it was, got out of the room in quick time and drove to my Grandma's house. The tree my dad had planted looked very nice in it's spot. My dad was in a hurry because he'd been up since six and he was ready to get moving off to Blue Cypress Lake, our day-trip-adventure. So Grammy and Donna in one car, my parents in another, and Angie and I in this red rental car I'd got for the weekend took of to see the big lake and after thirty minutes, we arrived at the old fish camp and a little inlet of the lake. We walked around the fish camp for a little bit, not much to see, and told stories, and chatted up the bait-shoppe owner, and took some pictures, and took some cool breeze air under a big cyprus tree, then said our goodbye's to one another, then they drove off, and Angie and I agreed to go chat up this couple that the shoppe owner told us about- this couple who was road-tripping from California together, she a painter, and he a writer. Angie and I drove our little rental car across this little land-bridge archipelago thing and met the couple. They were friendly for being hassled by a couple looky-lou kids, and as it turns out she was a painter akin to those of (or maybe featured in) Juxtapose Magazine. She showed us this oil painting she was working on. It looked like Mark Ryden's work, but I didn't say so (I didn't know his name off the top of my head at the time anyway, but her style and technique was familiar somehow). I tried to play the name game for a little bit, but we didn't come up with any mutual friends. She was making the painting for a show in Murykami's space in Japan, and she handed Angie and I a bookmark with her website on it. I looked up her instagram and followed her. She had twenty-five-thousand followers! We didn't hear much from her writer husband, and afterwards used our imaginations to discuss (make up) a narrative for him that worked with his wife. Angie and I drove back to Sarasota, in very agreeable circumstances. Upon our return, we went to a mall, which I'd not yet been to. It was fun making commentary on corporate consumption and such. I think Angie gets my sense of humor very nicely. I took a couple markers for us from an 'art' store, and gifted her one. We went into a 'pet' store and visited with a cat that Angie really wanted. We moved on and went into the big main mall, where we got a pretzel after exploring perfumes and colognes, which bored the snot out of me. We made it out having spent under four dollars, and a couple hours. Somewhere in there, I realized we were in the middle of 'black Friday'. We made it back to school in time to eat dinner at our cafeteria, and meet again with friends to discuss our respective little holidays. I walked Angie back to her apartment, she carrying her things, and said goodnight. She thanked me for taking her on the trip and I told her she was welcome.

Lotte

Thought about it today a bit. I've had lovers, and at the time I thought Iwas going through what Werther was going through. Perhaps I am less than Werther, as I did not kill myself, but then what of Geothe? It's been a great day. No bullshit. I had a dream, and woke with intention to remember and recall my dream, ascribed the words 'savant artist' as a touchstone for the memory. I dreamt of a young boy, and I as him perhaps, but also separate, watching, ( when I go to a music show, I watch the drummer, and I am drumming, and we succeed or fail together). He was great, this boy. I learn a lot from my dreams, especially regarding painting. I have somewhat oblique (or not immediately critical) revelations to painting methods therein. It's really wonderful. SO, Werther; I guess I felt like he might get over it, or something. I don't know. I was talking with my friend over dinner the other night, and I confessed to her how I (am horrible, and) have led women on before. The basis I guess for this was how intense Werther's love for Lotte was, though it could not be. And Angie, my friend, corrected/suggested because it could not be. It's especially convenient to love another who cannot love you back. You have no power other than love, nothing legal or social, just unbridled love, and little accountability, it's perfect. And the relationship that Lotte maintains (and theoretically, any unrequited partner) with her promised partner etc. proves that she is able to be trusted, and worthy of love. It's a win win win, especially if Werther were to kill himself. Goethe loves to please, happy stories, truly. God, I'm trying to recall what my revelation was earlier today. I didn't get much sleep last night, which, really, I found, is the best way to come into the workweek, again in no-bullshit mode. SO Angie and I were talking, and I didn't say that I had a similar setup to Werther, as vacuumed, Hmm.. I'll digress for a moment and acknowledge how gall-dang snotty I always sound on here. In Werther, there's a line about bad attitudes being the most intolerable and most inexcusable kind of thing. And so when I speak, I do so with joy in my heart, and if I sound any one way or another, may we think of hegemony before stones are cast. See, there I did it at the end of that sentence. Terrible. This blog is a kind-of dead-end on the internet, just somewhere for me to pour out, as this bumbling probably well evidences. Thing is, I have so many Lottes. While I read the book, I thought periodically about whom my Lotte was, but she remained a symbol. I wondered if I had ever loved at all. Today I heard on a podcast a joke about having never loved at all- one speaker was speaking "and upon entering the room he discovered..." and he was interrupted by another speaker for a stolen punchline, "..that he had never loved at all!". This an echo, and this morning I kind-of painted like a savant too, really nice how things rhyme and cycle. I haven't smoked week or drank in a while. I feel great, and work a lot now, it's a good time. I'm kind of a Lotte figure myself if my promised partner is my painting practice (Painting as a catch-all for creative practice). I call this guy today who'd posted bills at our school (illegally/ unofficially), for a project that at the end of the day was about his getting elected into some position of political influence. He told me that the election was done and he didn't need any illustration anymore. I doubt he would have had any money to offer anyway. I don't  care about the getting paid I guess so much, just a chance to deal with a new client- I think these are like little drug trips, that teach much. (Have not done many drugs, and try not to intentionally now too).

Werther

I took a day off on Saturday, slept in. Aside from that i've become happily in the habit of rising with the sun of late. It's as if my caffeine intake is so high, that I get rollover into the next day, which by the measure of work I have to tackle, I am thoroughly into. There's a 'super moon' tonight, which means that I"m a little more batshit than usual, and I have not been especially great at communicating with others- that is, my balance- I've been talking too much. Here too, I'm pouring out (pouring in), and it may be against my best interests, in some convoluted way, but I am full of thoughts, truly overflowing. I read The Sorrows of Young Werther the yesterday, and the day before- had a good time with it, blowing through it, and with exception of looking up word I was unclear on, read quite lean. I learned the word terse, and it's synonym laconic- this from a whack google search about the sculpture Laocoon and His Sons. I did a great sketch of a version of this sculpture at the Ringling Museum the other day, when my painting class went for a drawing field-trip. MY paintings have been coming out relatively well this semester, I have made breakthroughs at nearly every turn. It feels so exciting to experiment! Today I made some fun works in gouache of a model in an Eastern getup, outdoors- this from a figure drawing and painting group that I am the president of at the Ringling College. In short, I took this club ( a Ringling tradition, dating twenty plus years) which had gone bankrupt, and picked it up by its bootstraps. I sold a bunch of memberships, that we can use to pay models, and now we're up to fifteen hours (extracurricular drawing time) per week. Today was my baby session, the Sunday six-hour. This session always gets me in a frenzied state- because I have so much homework to do, yet commit to monitoring the club from 9am to 4pm (with a lunch break). I get all worked up, and think about where else I could be, and what else I 'should' be doing, and I get all panicky and bitter. It's kind of like what happens sometimes when I try to meditate. So by the time its done in the afternoon, I take a bit of time to organize some of my thoughts and things, and prepare for the week ahead, and eat some food, (it's going to be a long night/week) and rocket out into the working night. Here I am in the middle of it too. I'll get back to the studio now. I'm working on a big painting. I've won over my painting teacher, so I'm thinking to please her with a banger piece. Something that I will love painting. I am very excited for this painting. I've built a support and stretched a canvas for it, and am in the process of grinding out a thumbnail onto its gessoed surface now too. I love the grinding up, though I thought it might be terrible, I like it.. Also, the sketch is really inaccurate, but so good. I love the sketch, so I am going to do that terrible thing where I just try to do the thumbnail, but bigger. Thing is, I feel as though I can see the whole painting in my mind, or at least see the completion of the painting. I've come so far, and have many ideas to problems I may encounter, and solutions I may employ, and experiments I might try- so the outcome is clear in a way that feels more like love and less like a gig. There's something inevitable about it. You can probably sense now how I mean when I say that I am intolerable to speak with currently, and yet they try, my friends and classmates have been approaching me a lot lately. Even my teachers have such pleasant things to say. I feel to leave many times. I sent an email to Cal arts, almost in a panic, on the basis that they were in LA. I have not been to LA, but thought that moving there would be a good thing to do. Something so different. I outgrew Tallahassee in that I was lauded so frequently, it felt like I should be somewhere else in a way. So I moved on. Now heaven forbid I king the school (in my mind). Let the praise not find me. May I not hear it. May I be perceived not as an end, that I may continue to grow. That's enough for now I say. Back to the studio.

PS. I ate food while reading Werther, contrary to my fasting during Faust. I did not wish to kill myself, or do much anything dramatic. I just read, and enjoyed the work. What a blessing that I not become fixed into a fantasy as sorrowful as Werther's. God, I get distracted, I can feel my heart pull like his too, daydreaming, and sorrowful. I digress, but there's a funny disconnect (perhaps the most sorrowful thing of all) that my focus has become manifest in that I am contented to myself, and my work. I am truly blessed.

Back to the studio