I can taste it

I took two hours out of my (on the clock) work day to write another piece. It was an idea I had been spent a couple days turning over in my mind. To take a couple of scrapped ideas and reconstitute them into something usable. Funny enough, now that I think about it, I cite that the mindset of a successful and versatile artist is the ability to reforge old ideas into fresh raw material. That’s kind of encouraging. Does satisfying my own externally-imposed criteria for good art and good artists make me one? Or am I subconsciously writing justification for my own anxiety over my status as an artist? I’m going to take the time to look back at my piece– no, I’m not. I wrote that with the intention of looking at John Gorman’s piece on polymaths and to rephrase some stuff. Make it more wordy.

That’s exactly the kind of thing that I need to fight against. That desire to workshop until sterile. Sterilize until dead. To pasteurize. I need to use that phrase in the future. Pasteurized prose. Pasteurized writing. That’s not bad; good job, self.

I’m deviating slightly from the norm on this one. The primary difference is the lack of photography. I want to take photos, but also I want to let sleeping dogs lie. No photo ideas jump out at me. I had a difficult enough time picking out a photo for being ‘woke but obnoxious about it.’ I guess I could edit together a retro-looking RSS feed. That wouldn’t be believable, though. I guess it’s not too late to make something like that. But I’d also need pictures of machinery – I could do that at work, maybe. Kind of not. It feels weird enough trying to create art in that environment. I wonder how it will impact me when I reflect on it in the future. I’m already using ‘remelting’ and ‘raw material’ in my metaphors. Again, does that make me a good artist or a bad artist? I don’t know. I’m making the best of my situation. God dammit, I’m getting hella XP.

A new anxiety has cropped up. I don’t want to move with Fia and have roommates still. One of the most anticipated differences to our living situation is the fact that it’ll be our own place. Emphasis on the our. Not somewhere shared with other people. I want that so badly. For the freedom to craft a living space. To make the bedroom a place of sleep and sex. To not have to worry about dishes that aren’t ours.

But Portland is expensive. California is expensive, too. Chicago. At present, I don’t know if we can swing it when we get there. That makes me anxious – like I mentioned before. Idiot. Stupid. Moving with her to the venue for her school is the more important factor. Just like accepting that I’m most likely going to be working a day job for funding, maybe I need to accept that roommates are an inevitability. I hope not. On both accounts. Even freelance writers seem to refer to client work as day job. Not everything is being a tour photographer. Being a high-profile artist. Nobody is going to put my prose up in a frame and sell it for a million dollars, only to have my shred it in the frame using a contraption I built 12 years prior. Bless you, Banksy, you inspiration.

Picking up my film project isn’t the answer, either. That’s not a good place to go at that highly experimental project. Not a good mindset. Sure, it would showcase a lot of skills that I could be naturally quite good in. That’s part of the reason I want to pair authentic photography with these hyperpersonal essays. Diatribes. Ramblings. I don’t know why I think people are going to enjoy them. I like to think that I share that part of me that struggles with the thing I’m talking about, somewhat establishing my credibility to speak on the subject. Even being as young and inexperienced as I am. Another takeaway from my art could be that shared sentiment from other young artists.

Every time I read the work of other people, I think of how inferior my own is by comparison. Gorman’s ‘the Polymath Mindset’ is so much better than my piece. It’s also less gonzo in composition. Who titles their shit “The next person who cuts me off is getting shot”? I guess the answer is ‘me,’ with a side order of ‘.. and I hope it pays off. It’s an authentic title. It’s misdirection. I’m a genius, see?’ Hang on, I need to go link off to my Instagram in the scheduled Medium piece.

Physical Graffiti is probably Led Zeppelin’s best album. I haven’t listened to this thing all the way through, and I’m betting Fia will like it in light of Greta Van Fleet’s new record not being as good. Anyway, be right back.

When I roleplay-write pornography, I’m honestly just doing it for myself. There’s that age-old slightly sexist metaphor for finding a sexual partner. Something something ‘play tennis with a partner instead of the wall.’ I like to play tennis with the wall. I just need something to hit the ball off of – literally, sometimes – because I have an idea for where the story needs to go. I control that. Sure, sometimes it’s enjoyable to let the reigns go, but by and large I want to be the one in control. My favorite co-RPers are the ones who just hit the ball back without any English on it. I think that’s why I am drawn to these journals. I can pretend like I have a captive audience. I tell them ‘hang on, I’ll be right back’ and they’ll stay put. I get to vent into this blank rectangle of white pixels.

It feels good, though, and sometimes I end up willing out some good writing concepts. Writing in this journal has improved my skills as a writer, I think. Even if it’s just this stream-of-consciousness tripe. It has taught me how to get in-touch with my honest self. Lower those barriers. Tap into the honest prose. That’s what the whole essay I wrote was about. I didn’t mention the journals, though. Not yet. Nobody needs to get directed this way.

I might need to make a professional freelancer site if I hope to make any kind of living off of writing in the near future. Unless I pole-vault that right into ‘making them look’ like I’ve written about in the past. But the clock is ticking, and I want to be a professional writer. I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

I can fucking taste it.


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