Midterms and flying colors and she wants, no more. A certain generosity when I need to wait. I felt uphill, I only knew perpendicular trails this past week. The end of workload means more workflow.
Inescapable, this haunt about "after." After a bachelor's degree, after growing and living in a place so strong, after being torn apart and folded back together. The same noise that begs at an inevitable ending. I am just as scared as I was seven years ago.
Right quick, before I run to studio—
A misstep yesterday turned into an adventure with one breath, a wealth of love and my need to lay things down. I completed first round of sericin reduction and am about to dye a light shade of new black for the silk organza piece. Yet to begin small samples on various polyester fabrics. I am still researching folds.
Again to study for a midterm, to make two responses and read some smart things. Still to write and organize two research papers. Self-diagnosing thirty minute naps after 2 hour studying sessions.
I am holding my hands against the nitpicking I am not enough. One day I'll remember to stop and meditate on the color blue long enough to clear my head.
Sleep heals all, yet again. This week stole my judgement and poise. I would set one thing down, just to lose it two hours later. I felt a mild psychosis creeping.
Critique yesterday, second project of the semester still needing to be shot & posted. A first rough draft for one survey class. An idea for a research paper in another.
I felt drowning, what in all the powerful storms that raged by this week. Drowning in work and rainwater and apathy.
But here comes sleep, rubbing eyes and I am new to face midterms.
A semi-feud with a professor and yet to go back to studio since Monday. Days move quick, like their deft fingers and even a nap can't save me from the anxiety.
I've been stuck on. On and on and on
Stopped caring to pick up pieces. Stopped caring when I open my mouth, so wide
You can't take this high I'm on. I haven't been this inspired in a very long time.
And I am relearning a curve, a height I forgot that is not easy to reach. It's a slow process to reorient my mind. I'm a little dizzy.
I'm making a piece about the flood. I am tripping over self-doubt because there isn't anything else to worry about at the moment. I'm using colors; it's a painting.
It's hard to know anything other than process. I can't see anything past process.
I am struggling with self-criticism. I am working long hours every day. I have not slept in for at least three weeks.
And I have three small-time jobs, just like that, matched with a full student schedule and (newfound) perseverance. This semester is the long haul. It is the most important semester in my college career.
My first critique is in two weeks. I have nestled down into drawing again; I am covering a large, square linoleum block. It smells and feels wonderful. I am not worried about that timeline; it will be completed with room to spare. I even know how to hang it.
Funny how my senior year of high school held similar imagery for me.
More than enough work for all. I've run out of coffee grounds, so green tea matcha is my next victim. Yet to finish the powerpoint for the first day of class. A wavering application for an internship left undecided. I can't tell if all this heat is good or bad for the earth; I know I've suffered mild heatstroke for days.
Sometimes things die and I have to make an oil painting. Gnats are unfortunately excluded from this group.
This coming week is going to be exciting to say the least.
I am introduced to the importance of vacation and being centered, one quick step toward a decision and things fall into place.
Movement is hard for me. As of late, my mind has finally settled from previous trauma. I can't help snuggling down inside stability; starting clean from living without hope for years—I just wanted to preserve that cleanliness. Like a freshly laundered shirt.
So I skirted purchasing things and plunged into twelve hour sleeps. I learned a hard day's work, 9–5 to stay alive, and found no rewards. I wrote three pages a day, organized into annotating scripture in the morning, morphed into a real-live flood and plumbing issues. I was addressed internally, brought out externally, fussing the entire way.
Pointing fingers the entire way. Things have fallen apart before, it's material they say, and I know better. There's no issue, just slight inconvenience to move and do "a think about it."
And so I was brought to a land with misty rivers and sunsets that aren't seen through windows. A place that changes temperature without warning, dropping dead pine needles and rain occasionally.
Funny how just touching toes into cold spring water rearranges the soul.
Two days back to back of "9–5 just to stay alive," I submitted a writing and a proposal to respective individuals. A roving gift has set me spinning and I've appliquéd one south Vietnamese goat to muslin. House season 5 is almost complete and I am happy, consecutively happy for the first time in a long time.
Yesterday morning I remembered a distant relative of mine. I paused in the bathroom just before a shower and remembered her from last year. A call later that evening revealed her accident, that she had been hit by a car on her bike in the morning.
I learn this morning that a friend's younger brother broke his leg, and I'm here almost disbelieving. I suppose the new month of August is a good time as any to begin healing.