I mean, I should post images or funny video links to show people what interests ME. You know? I like THIS and I like THAT. I don’t know, meanwhile I’ll just be honest about things that occur to me.

It’s being online when you don’t have to be or having the TV on when you’re not really watching. Luxury, but not really. Hypnosis, but not really. I was in AP biology in 10th grade and my teacher would say, “Boy you got a real heart fetish, huh?” But my hearts were elaborate. Fuzzy, had pins stuck in ’em, polka dots, plaid, jigsaw puzzles, had things dripping from ‘em. Checkerboard, but pop-up-in-yer-face checkerboard. All bordering some kind of dictation on the Endocrine system or something like that, I wasn’t really paying attention. I don’t have anything else I want to draw. Part of it make me really happy covering an entire sheet of paper with nothingness that might ACTUALLY be an image coming out at you if you stare at it long enough (But it isn’t, really.)

Here’s why I hate my drawings. They frighten me. Always associated with killing time, or curbing things like hunger, need or connection. A chance to be mesmerized without being mesmerized. And I’m NOT mesmerized. My shoulders are still stiff, I’m still thinking about stuff, and there’s no feeling of ‘Look what I made!” More like, “Uh I guess I’ll throw this away now.” Dull pains that don’t really hurt but aren’t too comfortable either. I used to steal bunches of Xerox paper from copy machines and speed walk away from the scene of the crime <-no one cared. The math lab would have this newsprint paper they’d give out for scrap work. I’d take BUNCHES of it and draw. The way the pen felt on that paper – really very nice and good. This isn’t talent – it’s nothing. I stopped drawing actual faces back in elementary school, no actually in later-junior-high. The teacher would hand out packets with interesting fonts or borders or headings and I’d fill ‘em all in with rigid lines and checkerboard stuff and all other kinds of designs that seemed whimsical at the time. The clock just took too long to mature to the next hour which was FINE BY ME. I got me this little art project here.

I like faces. I had this T-shirt with Shel Silverstein/Roald Dahl-ish faces all drawn onto it. A t-shirt of probably 500 faces (creepy but my favorite shirt. Not an attractive shirt, just ANYWAY.) I could do stuff like that. But I’ve been there, you know? I’ve tried something new and have it be the SAME EXACT THING I’ve been doing, but just a different design. Two-dimensional stuff that just sits back, gripping all that anger, hunger, need, whatever reaction or nonreaction I had to things happening around me. Kinda like ghosts. Smirking ghosts. I choose to not be here right now. The conversations got better and I drew less but it came back when my authorities said, “I’m paying’ for you to go to that college! Don’t just draw it all away!” So that made me want to draw more. And I did. And when it comes back NOW? When I see those designs get drawn NOW? It just makes me angry. Those things make me sad. They make me starving. A timewaster that’s meant to relieve…uh… something but never really does. Like Novocain that knocks you out but keeps you very awake at the same time. Roald Dahl’s drawings fly. They’re not so “cement.” Ponder this.

What it DID do was give me something to concentrate on while listening to people’s speech patterns and I guess I learned some kind of rhythm? Like dialogue or something. Maybe. Let’s just say Yes. Makes it sound better.

But when I do it, I feel guilty. Embarrassed, too. I shouldn’t be doing this because
A. It’s not allowed.
B. it’s disrespectful to the people/things/the world around me which MIGHT want me present for.
Or
C. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fake drawing. This is wallpaper. This isn’t art. I just don’t really want to draw people.

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