I've developed an eye twitch in my left eyelid for the past two days. So I asked the doc about it this morning while I took a family member to see about tonsilitus, and it's apparently (or obviously) stress related.
He was sort of smirking in an apologetic way. Told me to come back if it's still there in three weeks.
A fucking eye twitch fer Christ's sake?
What'll it be next?
Piles?
My brother showed me this today.
I suggest you only view these if you don't mind scenes of a south park esque sexual piss take nature.
You have been warned!
Afternoon all!
The last few days:
Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great. - Mark Twain
I've not blogged in forever.
Well it is half term, and real life is taking over somewhat. It's a tad mental over here.
Plus my mum's got her life long girl friend over. Not in a life partner way. I feel confident mother's never tasted The Dark Side of which I'm grateful.
So everything is curtains this and wallpaper that.
It's nice for mum. She's enjoying it.
My life is too busy at the moment.
Too full.
I'm not taking some in, and its skimming over my head.
I can't even write this blogpost without seeming all disjointed.
I've had no time really for art yet, although the one or two things I have done have been worthwhile. I copied a cool charcoal drawing done by Georgia O'Keeffe today that's turned out well. Only in my sketchbook though. I keep having to look at it. It's not particularly beautiful or impressive. Nor does it make any sense as such. But I can't stop looking at it. I get the feeling that I've had a bit of an epiphany on that front. It isn't about how good something is. It's about whether it captures your eyes and holds them there. I've seen a lot of amateur art (including my own) and professional work that just doesn't do it for me. But some things just glue the eyes.
Anyway.
The research on Georgia O'Keeffe has been really interesting. What a life that woman had. I wonder whether anyone fancies dramatising it a little and putting it on the big screen. Get a bit of the last centuries feminist movement in there.
I've also been researching more on Raymond Carver for English lit. I've a presentation to give on one of his stories from Short Cuts next week, So Much Water SO Close To Home. I'm not exactly excited about that. At least it's one with fewer sex scenes and a dead body in a river. So many metaphors, so little time.
I did read two very interesting interviews with the man that gave me a new perspective on his work. So I'm a little more tolerant of his ways. I'm enthralled by people who follow their dreams and do what they believe in. Especially if those dreams have obstacles to overcome. It's my own personal credo.
Speaking of such things...
My Art Friend, whom I must get round to nicknaming for the purposes of this place, and I were talking about abusive relationships and more importantly his sisters relationship with her spouse. The things he said. Echoes of my own life. But she doesn't seem to have gathered the strength to leave. She's stagnated and he's worried she won't snap out of it. He says jokingly that he needs to get me and her in a room chatting.
It made me ponder my own path
And while I do have so many regrets
I can honestly say from the very bottom of my being
That leaving The Ex was the best thing I've ever done.
I'm actually elated just thinking about it.
Joy bubbles inside my belly and chest and I want to jump in the air and pump my arms whooping or something. Over two years later!
And above all else that's happened since then
I feel free.
On a less emotional note..
Flange or flower?
There is brick dust everywhere.
No really... everywhere.
Despite repeat washing of everything.
Vertically. Horizontally. Every ally.
I have brick dust in my eyeballs, my flue, and the cat.
I am also the proud owner (sort of) of an almost freshly converted three bed. Even though it's taken longer than we'd imagined, and there's another few days of joinery and plaster work left which can only be started when the window for the new room is made (in roughly two - three weeks) I'm really loving every nook and cranny of the place.
And that's the upshot really.
I have nooks and crannies.
It's not a modern box with little boxes perfectly compartmentalised within.
It's got real character. It's got interest. It's got my stamp on it a little bit and soon a lot more.
I've not had a place before where I can do what I want in it. Even the house I shared with the Ex Of Eleven Years never really felt like home. Mostly because it was an unhappy one, and the male name on the deeds would be shouted about often.
In other news...
We had the semi final review for the first art brief today. I went first. Laid all my work out on boards and the tutor went through my sketchbook etc making notes. There are a few things i have yet to do that are going to be finished in time for the final deadline of two weeks, but i've already got a Merit, and that should turn into a Distinction grade when completed.
I was the only one to basically be told that i'd get distinction. Madness. Several others were really upset and the tutor marked really harshly. The art technician said that the tutor rarely gives distinctions at all, and it was nigh on impossible to get one for the first project. She was talking to someone else at the time and I overheard.
I'm a little bit overwhelmed.
Just really... shocked.
The wan glow from the widely spaced street lighting casts a sickly yellow spell across the night. Eerily clear and yet misleading, the sharp shadows stabbing in odd directions, criss crossing each other and fighting for her attention. The only sound comes from her shoes as she tries to step as lightly as possible leaving the double doors closing behind her slowly, senses alert.
The sea of metal reaches in front, row after row of cars in this first carpark. She clutches her folder to her chest, continues her light step, and weaves into the empty tarmac road that stands out starkly.
There's not another soul around and yet she feels like she's not alone.
The nape of her neck.
Hairs prickle.
Feet lightly stepping.
Car keys quietly jangling, sounding dull in the stillness.
She wonders whether the security guard's watching her on the camera.
Ten cars pass by and she's bathed in another street light. Rather than feeling more secure, she feels vulnerable under it's pale gaze, her eyes glancing to the wide line of scrub and trees that falls down a slope on her left. No breeze moves a single leaf, and the quiet presses upon her ears.
Her eyes dart into each car window as she passes, unable to see properly in the dark, wondering whether someone's sitting behind the wheel, unwilling to find anyone there let alone make eye contact. A reluctant peeping Tom.
Another ten cars file behind her, the building far away, she's walked across the first carpark, and now passes through the dilapidated chain link fence to the darker emptier back car park.
In the distant far corner sits her little red car patiently waiting, and her eyes keep flickering towards sanctuary, her steps quicken.
Three cars away still and she's already holding the key out seeking the lock.
And then she's inside with the doors shut, pushing the button down.
No relief yet, until the engine roars and Galaxy FM barks out too loudly at her.
She drives away.
I burned my first cd today.
Momentous no?
Panic At The Disco album for me to listen to in art class tomorrow.
I've also glazed my first ever ceramic 'things' which happen to be two tiles. One art decco esque and the other its sort of a pineapple. In disguise. Artistic license I say.
A steroid using ex resurfaced on Sunday at my GBF's work (in a large shopping mall thing near me) and screamed wanker, fucking wanker... etc through the window at him. GBF was livid as he works in an extremely prestigious shop. I'm thinking steroid using ex is back on the paranoia protein pills. I feel happy that I've moved house and changed my phone number anyway.
Otto.
It's a good name for a boy don't you think?
Now don't poof pooh it straight away. Sound it out. Let it roll off the tongue. It's fun and kooky.
Just studying graphic design and came across a turn of the twentieth century artist Otto Eckmann, hence the splurge of consciousness.
Staying with the Teletubbies theme (alas poor Tinky Winky) has anyone listened properly to Panic At The Disco's new album?
Fantastic by the way. Buy it now etc. But they sample the Teletubbies sound where the little speaker things pop up out of the ground and make an old fashioned turning on sound. Of course I'm sure the Teletubbies originally got their noise from something much more serious and the same place that Panic At The Disco got theirs, but it tickles me nonetheless. 'Intermission' gives me chills and reminds me of the Labyrinth movie.
I've had a really good few days. Seen lots of the boyf and had many cuddles. Got big chunks of my sketchbook done (mostly research but there's a not bad close up of a strawberry in there too).
Um.
Went to see The Devil Wears Prada.
Rather disappointed.
It had such potential that just wasn't realised. Worth a watch on telly and that's it. It really didn't deserve Heat's five star rating. The lead female woman, whatever her name is, is just a pretty face and staring 'innocent' cow eyes. Many of the other key cast members are really good in their roles, but Ole Cow Eyes was shit. Bad casting people. BAD. Even Sandra Bollock would have been better at this (had she been ten years younger). In fact, Ole Cow Eyes' eyes scared me in every close up. Of which there were many. Yes yes Mr Film Producer. She has cow eyes. Let's move on shall we? They had that empty dull sheen and complete brown iris that freaks me out sometimes on a horse. Know what I mean? But she isn't Ole Horse Eyes, because horses actually possess many good qualities. Therefore the cow must prevail as her alias.
Moo Bitch.
Which one to milk? Decisions decisions.
I've been going out with the boyf for over 6 months now.
There's loads I want to say about that, like what a delicious chunk of time that's been, and how stupidly happy we are. Yes sickeningly in love. You may all retch at the back there.
But i've no time, as he's on his way over and I've yet to shower.
Still. The time scale seems to more accurately reflect the magnitude of our feelings towards each other.
God emailed me last month and told me to build a large boat out of old tampon tubes in order to transport the worthy. There was a large list. Jude Law was on it, so I'm happy.
Only problem is that the email was sent to the trash.
Stupid hotmail Bill Gates Wants To Be Omnipotent filter TM.
Now we will all drown as I've not kept my last periods used inserts. I don't think i'll get a boat out of just next week's blood ritual. Possibly could manage a small dingy. So all who want to climb aboard should let me know.
Ta.
GOD DAMN EVERYTHING.
Days of whinging at me is taking its toll. The bad side of living near your mother.
What the fuck?
I know how i will die.
Spontanious combustion.
Jesus I need a smoke.
Cheap wine then. The pussy man's substitute.
Me aka Pussy aka Sounding Board to the mentally challenged without any other soul who cares.
FUCK IT ALL!
FUCKERADA.
Which by the way is a word my best mate and I invented when I was 18 ish.
(this post was sponsored by grr, and arg, and the letter F)
I had a very odd dream last night.
There was stuff beforehand that i've forgotton, but the crux of the oddest bit was when i met up with a (girl) friend for drinks round their house, and her boyfriend turned out to be my old Psychology tutor. Then it transpired that he could write prescriptions for antidepressant medication and coerced me to get a load so he could sell them on the black market. Most of the dream was spent with me in a queue feeling conspicious and waiting to be caught out. Tense nervousness. Then getting to the pharmacy counter and being served with no problem.
Make of that what you will people!
I'm tired.
I started my ceramic sculpture today which was pretty engrossing. It's sort of coming along. I don't completely agree with the direction that the design has taken, but the tutor steered it in that direction so presumably its what he wants. Besides. It's cermaic sculpture prototype one. Apparently.
My thumb hurts, and not because of anything kinky like er ... anal thumb plugging.
I've been 'sewing' into my batik to turn it into this textiles object d'art.
Hooray. 3D pips.
Also..
Managed to paint this the other day. Apart from giving the background a colour, it's finished and ready to add to my too little body of work for this art brief due in two weeks. (Click for bigger)
Sex. Alcohol. Money. The Mudane.
That seems to essentially sum up Raymond Carver's Short Stories. Reading aloud to a group of eclectic old women about a guy pushing his hand under his belt and masturbating whilst lying on his neighbours bed before dressing up in women's clothing is not generally my idea of a good time. But I'm all for trying new things.
*pulling a face*
Anyway, my Amazon english literature books came through the other day so I can delve into Carver's mind without delay.
Yay me.
23 pounds well spent there then.
On a happier online purchase note, I'm waiting for an order of 6 500ml acrylic paint tubs to turn up. Not bad at 33 squid. 55% off. Please Lord of Learning Support Funds For The Cronically Skint, let me qualify for some cash pronto.
I really need red. It's hard to paint figs without red.
And why has the CSA decided to knock off another 50 pounds from this months money? Randomly? Nothing mentioned. Just suddenly not there. Fucking Fuckwits. Fucking government. Fucking ex. Fucking injustice of the world. Fucking fuck fuck.
Can't wait for the day when Karma comes to bite all those deserving right back on the arse. And it will.
I'm not in an angry mood though.
Even though it sounds like it. Comedy angry perhaps. I'm a little reflective. A touch melancholy. And a spattering of frustration.
My house feels like it's lost it's spirit.
Emotionally empty. Spiritually sterile.
It was a home earlier this morning when my boyfriend held me close in his warm embrace before he had to go. Now it's just a shell again. This house isn't meant for one person.
If the upstairs can just hurry up and get sorted I'll feel better.
Still be missing something though.
Maybe it's just me and not the house at all.
