meh.

Aaargh.

I can't paint. I was wrong in that last entry. There are so many things standing in my way.

This is what most artists go thru, I suppose--at least I *hear* that's the case--trying to get up and do the work. So I guess I'm not alone in this.

But--for those who didn't know, here's a fun fact--I live with my parents. I had to move back in with them a little over a year ago for an abundance of reasons. There is no private space here. There is no *uncarpeted* space here where I can just paint without worrying about flinging bits everywhere. And I don't like having people see my work before it's done. I can see it now (because this happened years ago as well)--I'll be working, or maybe not, maybe I'll just have the painting half-done and sitting there--and they walk by and with a great deal of enthusiasm, wish to discuss it. This is very sweet but because I'm so painfully self-conscious, I just can't take the scrutiny--even if it's complimentary. I know TJ would love for me to set up a studio at his space but it would be the same sort of problems, and I just can't drive over to Pasadena every time I get a wild hair and decide to paint.

It's lame because I sit here and all day long I *think* about getting my supplies out and painting, and I don't do it. All I'd have to do would be to dig the stuff out of all my crap in the boxes in the back room (from when I moved back in here, never unpacked), but instead I sit here, twenty-four feet away fro my canvasses and paints, and do nothing but stare at the tv or the computer.

I like...

(a current list, in no particular order, and all of striking unimportance in the grand scheme of things, but also all channeling a little bit of the essence of much Bigger, Important things that are necessary for life):

-"al dente" jello made with extra gelatin so it's really hard, not sloppy and melt-y, but chewy. I add extra packets of gelatin on purpose to sugar-free jello and add low-carb (not sugar free, I am not a nazi) juice instead of water...mmm...I don't know why I like it but I do.

-dessert spoons with those long, attenuated handles that seem very elegant. I like eating all sorts of foods with them, not just dessert.

-the new Marjorie Fair album. A very unfortunate band name, though. They're from Silverlake.

-actually feeling artistically inspired for the first time in a long time. I went to a party with a lot of arty types and was reminded that, hey, I like art. And hey, I can make art. Now I just have to dig out all the art supplies. Too often I let the annoyance and difficulty of the process--it's so messy/takes so long to set up and clean up/it takes up so much space/I hate having people see my works in progress/etc etc etc---divert me from doing the actual work.

-contemplating taking the train to watch Normal cross the finish line at her run in SF this coming weekend.

Burning Man is only fifty days away, and there's so much to do. Like, maybe, get the week off of work. And create that art project I said I'd do. And pull together costumes. And put the electroluminescent wire on my bike. And find a way to keep from losing my mind while I'm there. I can't even make it thru a party without flipping out these days. What makes me think I could survive the Burn?

I must be nuts.

I am depressed.

It's a combo of monthly hormones, nothing to do all day, or rather things to do that I don't want to do; also a job search that's hanging in stasis right now, and a lot of self-judgement.

I'm trying to decide which way to go career-wise. I know I'm putting too much pressure on this one choice (the choice being, Which office job do I take?) but I feel like I've lost sight of my goals, or maybe even like I never had any. My enthusiasm for writing (well, for journalism, really) is waning, and it's so scary to feel that happening.

When you lose enthusiasm for the one thing you had *thought* you were always *meant* to do, what are you left with?

Honestly, it kinda makes me feel like nothing means anything.

It surprises me not a whit that I got so messed up in the years past, because I'm at a crossroads these last few years and I have some sort of unfortunate native tendency to lean towards the negative assessment of things. I can look back and understand how it would have been so appealing to just zone out and not be present.

Now that I'm back and in the moment, tho, the problems have not gone away.

I just feel so fucking lost sometimes.

Today TJ and I woke up around ten (last night was a party and we were there kinda late) and he felt like ass (unusual for him, to be sick or hungover) so I stayed and nursed him and watched tv with he and Sylkia. I then left around 3 as he started to feel better and went for a drive up the 210, to the 118 north, to the 23 to Ventura Freeway and out to Old Town Ventura, where three or four weeks ago I'd seen a necklace I'd loved and wanted to buy it.

I never get really nice, expensive things for myself. This is because I cannot afford to. But I really loved this necklace--the chain is made to look like leaves, and there are little blueberries all along it--not real of course, but they LOOK real, just tinier, and jewellike--there's nothing like it anywhere and I love it. And they let me put it on layaway! Which means by October or so I'll have it paid off. ;) Oh well. It's good to have goals.

Then I wandered around the old town. There are lots of old art-deco, arts-n-crafts, and earlier buildings. A few Victorian bungalows, a few early-1900's brick buildings. Above the main street (aptly named Main Street), the roads angle abruptly uphill as the bluff beneath the town throws itself away from the ocean. The city hall is obscured by scaffolding but is a lovely building, and a monumental statue taller than the palms on the hill stands in front of the hall. It's a statue of St. Francis or Father Serra (the founder of all California's missions) and it overlooks the town almost like Rio de Janiero's famous image of Jesus the Redeemer, its arms outstretched, with nothing but sky behind it. I looked up at the statue and noticed that the light transparent clouds overhead were moving faster than any clouds I'd ever seen. They looked like time-lapse photography, sliding past with silent speed, like I was underwater and they were on the surface, ten thousand feet above me.

I felt indescribable.

The drive home was along this inland highway I've never taken, the 150 or something, past fields of tomatoes and budding cauliflower and blackberry brambles. A few farmhouses punctuated the landscape every few miles and the rows of irrigated green alternated between glittery flashing water and deep viridian spokes that seemed to click reasurringly alongside my vision as I drove across them, snapping each one back into the field rolling along, rising up in the distance to low gold hills with one or two oaks leaning in the direction of the wind, where I was driving.