artblock; Day 2

October 27th, 2010

I can’t take this anymore. I feel like I’m impotent. Except they don’t make little blue pills for this sort of dysfunction. I wasted an entire hour and a half today staring at my notebook, my pencil, my hand, sketching out half-formed and half-hearted ideas. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Mind as blank as the canvas in front of me.

What is wrong with me? Why this massive creative constipation? I know what I want. I want to shit colors and shapes and beautiful ideas all over that big white slab. I want the art to erupt from me like bad seafood bubbling up the intake valve. I want it to be visceral and passionate and the way it feels in my head. In the words of Daniel Quinn, I “want to make the earth tremble and the stones weep and the skies open up”. I know I won’t. But I want to feel like I could.

Why is it I didn’t feel like this last year? Why this sudden lack of inspiration that leaves me flustered and embarrassed? It physically hurts me to think about painting right now. My sketching abilities feel severely compromised as well. Let’s not even speak of my creative writing.

Desk. Apply directly to the forehead. Lather, rinse, repeat.

This entry has been really gross. What have we learned so far? Wellp, Bri equates her expeditions in art to bodily spewages of all colors and creeds. Something could at least be said for my consistency.

Had a pretty long conversation with Erica about astrology today (actually, it was two, spread out over the course of the day, but that’s just my Virgo finickiness rearing its finely-groomed head). Thinking about looking further into it. If only out of morbid curiosity. 

Also, Margaret Cho is off. Which is a shame, because I was really looking forward to a Will-Bri-Kim road trip… 

We’re calling about Dell warranty information and I guess the help headquarters is in India. My brother and I are trying not to laugh on the phone, because the guy is really reminding us of the movie Outsourced (cute movie!). So hard not to giggle, and I’m pretty sure the man thinks we’re idiots.

Oh well. It’s the tiny things.