Reading harold_maude's journal

Sitting here thinking about things. Wondering how long it's going to take..how much more time. I'm moving at least, forward tords this goal.
At least that much is happening.

The last couple of days have been different. I find it hard to get up in the morning.
I know this came about because there is some big stuff comming that requires more money, so I understand that.

But I've waited so long that now, so close and still off in the distance. I feel like I've been pregnant with this forever.
I just want to get on with this.
Do the one thing I know I'm suppose to.

Sometimes it feels like this illusion just sitting there staring at me from a rippled mirror and asking me these questions over and over, without waiting for an answer.

some times it feels like I've lost so much time that when it finally does happen I'll be on my death bed and will only be able to watch helplessly, no longer able to create more, and all the while my mind exploding with vision after vision of the most intese work and not being able to focus my body anymore to try to speak about what I'm seeing.

I wish I had been strong enough years ago to leave my home town and follow this path then.
I know there are is a thought that at least I made it at some point in my life.
I wonder if I could have handled being away then, like I do now.
No homesickness...none.

I wanted to go to the cincinatti instute of art when I was in highschool.
Everyone got their own studio, and that would mean I could really study to my hearts content.
I did anyway, on my own. My instructors were all kinds of things and artists who were dead.
I remember taking adds from magazines and imitating them trying to get as close to perfect as possible.
I learned life drawing from playboy.
I learned how color works from spending hours just looking at nature.
..I wanted to go to school to study art. I was just as hungry to do art as I am now.
I'm fighting time now...
I didn't understand what I do now about art being a primitive language, one that connects the whole human race.
I didn't understand the difference between being an awesome technition and being an artist.
One takes only the understanding of certian rules and following them, while the other is fluid and moves and breathes.

I threw out the rules of art along the way. I just did what ever led me to where ever.
It was a place to hide out in from the world...
I was isolated.

I wonder what I would be like now if I had gone to school so far away from the place where I lived my life up to just a few years ago.
Would I have learned the same things anyway?

I don't know...I do know that I see art in a way now that is different from almost all the artists I talk to, especially the ones who have been to school.
It makes me feel like a freak sometimes. I think about things differently.
And I find myself wanting to hang out with other artists and see what we have in common.
and it makes me wish that I could go back in time and hang out with van gogh or lenardo, and learn as much as I could.

And Esher...and some others as well.

I've got to just stay focused and keep my thoughts going in a focused direction instead of thinking about something I can't change.

I'll be more settled once I'm there...

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.

I do know that I see art in a way now that is different from almost all the artists I talk to, especially the ones who have been to school.

You are the only artist I've talked to, I am a virgin so to speak and I have not been to school. The people I know in my life are not artists, they are your average ordinary people. I am starving inside because my emotional needs are not being met. They are not being kindled and fostered by my current peer group. I am longing for this artistic rebirth...

What I see from our conversations is pretty amazing. I see a hunger in you, the same hunger that is in me. When I get up in the morning I think about writing, when I am at work I think about writing and when I go home I am still thinking about writing. Hell, when I'm writing I'm thinking about writing... My self esteem could use some work, I often approach the writers I like as if I can never rise to their level. I want so much to understand Emily Dickinson, I want to get wrapped up in her words and twisted around her style. I want to dissect her and know just for a second what it was like to be her, to be inside her mind and to see the world through her precious eyes. I have a hunger, a growing thirst and an unimaginable craving to put these words in certain succession and to allow anyone and everyone to read them. I need this, this is me, it's what I have to give this world. I see this same arcane realism inside you.

This post was edited by majic on Nov 02, 2005.