I had an art consulting session today that was more cathartic than my usual therapy sessions.
I see Ellie Blankfort once a month, who consults me, not only about my art career and creativity, but for so much more – it’s in fact really hard to explain. Today however, I happened to bring a few of my artists books. She had never seen them before, not in real life anyway, and she was rather impressed. And I suppose, I aim to please. It’s actually a life-long problem of mine, like an albatross around my neck that Ellie may have helped me to cut loose today.
She handed me the right kind of scissors anyway.
Look at me, I aim to impress the shit out of you! Yeah, me and a million others.
I am so sick of all that ego-sucking-non-HERE-and-NOW-dishonest-energy-melting-worry-wart-mental-mind-fucking I have done to myself. I am so done with it all. Thank you Ellie.
Bringing those books turned the conversation into story telling, which turned into telling my story, which turned into the fact that I’ve been writing this book, and now…
that’s the last you will hear any mention of this endeavor of mine.
That doesn’t mean I won’t be talking about writing in general, or things I have already written, and maybe even artist’s books I’m working on – like Houses, for God’s sake! How long has it been since you heard me mention anything about that? It’s still something I plan to do! All I have to do with that – next anyway – is carve out the block for the block print. Most of the pages are done.
You know, it’s been almost forever since I have kept notebooks of lists with little empty squares next to them. For a while I thought that was a good thing. I thought that it meant I had recuperated, or combated my stupid little obsessive proclivities. But I think I need to start doing it again, but for the same reasons as I did it before – which was for a sense of accomplishment. I need to because I am forgetting my goals.
I know that sounds absurd. How can someone, particularly ME with relentless ambition, forget their goals?
What’s crazier is: I was sitting in the back yard yesterday and I could not remember how I got there. This happens frequently – more frequently than I care to believe or want to believe or than mjp wants to know or hear about. I wound up tracing my day of starting to sweep the floors of the kitchen and hall way, cleaning the bathroom, and following my rag along the top and bottom moldings of the room. I thought about the two sconces, and at that moment, I felt like I split in half.
There I was in the garden sitting next to myself, and now it was harder to remember all that cleaning, so
I figured she must have done it.
Luckily all this lasted but a few moments. Maybe five minutes at the most. But why can’t we forget shit like that instead of all the great, creative things we want to get done in this life before we lose our marbles?
So back to the lists I will go.