I can't write. I'm sizzling with repressed words, somewhere in the deep of my mind, but when I go to sit down and write, they dry up, or sink down past the unreachable.
I can't paint or draw. I want to, but when I go to actually paint or draw or even design a bag for my mother's jewelry box, I just stare off into the distance, my mind a complete and total blank slate. Blank slates are all well and good, but weeks of one gets boring, not to mention frustrating as all crap.
Who knows? Maybe I wouldn't have found the stupid people in my lab this morning quite so frustrating if I wasn't so preoccupied and frustrated with my lack of artistry. I got so frustrated I snapped and started bossing people around. We got done, too, once I started bossing, but it wasn't very pleasant for me and I doubt it was for anyone else either. Especially not that stupid hick woman who had to go and act all know-it-all and then be all polite to me because we're in the same class. Grr. And the stupid campus with no pay phones except in the one building which is closed and locked tight, because who the hell in their right minds goes to Calhoun on a weekend? And then the pay phone at the gas station - I picked it up and there was spider webs all over it. I just stuck my hand in spiderwebs.
Then Grandma and Mom and I went to a local artists' show at a little gallery here in Decatur. I feel like there have to be relatively talented artists somewhere around here, but there wasn't much evidence for their existence at the show. Eh, I'm probably being harsh. But I can do better than half of them, and that's honestly not saying much. I guess I'm irritated with the people who submitted bad works to that show because I feel it's not fair that I can't make anything and they can, but I could do it better. Does that make sense?
The Death of an Artist - slowly going mad because of a bizarre lack of vision.
Although yesterday I did sit down with a piece of poetry I thought I hated, and I found that I loved it after all. Trying to beat it into shape didn't quite work, but when I met it on different terms.... I didn't think I'd butchered it so badly after all. I hadn't realized, before, that poems have their own personalities, and sometimes demand to be met as equals.
So there's rain in the darkest of valleys.