A few midnight painting sessions later, I had the above set of three paintings. The process was actually quite relaxing. I daydreamed of breezy summer days in Union Square, guitar in hand, selling my over-priced creations to unsavvy tourists seeking bargains from as yet undiscovered talent. This reverie was cut short by a dinner party at a real artist’s house. Hearing him talk about the amount of discipline involved in being a real painter, I let my little fantasy go, no worse for wear. I suppose the living room has new decorations as well, which is a good thing.
So, I am basically in the midst of an identity crisis. If I haven’t written much these past few weeks, well it’s probably not because there was nothing on my mind (yes I double my negatives). If anything, the abudance of mental sturm und drang has made it quite difficult to sit still long enough to write anything of quality.
Somewhere inside of me a biological clock ticks, ticking down to I don’t know exactly what. The best I can say is that I don’t exactly know what I want to do with my life, and this frustrates me. Last week I thought I wanted to be a painter (sorry for the low lighting).