I was really tired then I did breathwork and had the inevitable realization that “fine art” is draining me. I can’t paint with out a muse, call me weak, codependent… I really can’t do anything without someone inspiring me, like anything that requires physical labor.
So I’m on a quest to fix that, some call this dating. I already feel torn in several different directions and they’re all pulling me away from myself, putting me to work, and I start to freeze.
Again, call me all the traditional architypes that combat the “modern woman” but I can’t be in a relationship where I can’t get away with doing whatever I want to the other person. I think that’s the foundation of true love, not respect, or acts of service, or mutual goals – it’s being able to slap the fuck out of someone in public then make out the next minute then hide in a bush and cut your ear off for them. I get that I figured this out by forcefully having no friends for a decade and this resulted in a complete lack of shame or self awareness, but in my solitude I found this new emergent undiscovered emotion that I believe to be “love”.
You’d think given the political climate that letting boys and girls do whatever they want to each other would lead to all sorts of abuse – overall I think abuse would average out to be the same. I would run along the fountain curb and fall backwards off the end knowing he, being perfectly synched up with me, would catch my fall. I could literally do anything around him, I could do more around him than I could alone because less people scoff at a crazy couple than a crazy individual. Friends are so judgmental, respect is so judgmental, boundaries turn in to walls and then become weaponized. I think life is better as a big fucking mess where people have to learn from experience rather than historically established hard-to-change rules.
As you get older you get more “professional” which basically translates to “someone owns your ass part time” and you have to police more and more of your tendencies until you start making up justification for your forced behavior so you stop living in fear – ew. Slow death. (I’m trying to find a way out, I swear, not just for me but everyone, I’m not giving in without a fight.)
Anyways, I’m torn, and art is not the answer.
Anthropological Magical Realism 