My Art Was/Is Pointless

   I’m not sure I’m out of my funk yet.  I’m not sure it’s actually depression since I’ve never been diagnosed and I don’t feel any definition of sad but I feel like nothing.  I assume this lack of emotional movement is some form of depression and so that’s what I call it.

   I can usually tell when I’m depressed when my baggie of green herbage disappears quicker than it should and when the laundry piles up to hikers levels. I’m so completely unmotivated I don’t even want to blog.  I just feel like maybe if I do I can work something unexpected out.

So far a lot of nothing

    The next entry for poetry project is really horrible and I don’t want to post it but the point of this project is to post whatever nonsense I wrote long ago, fixing as I go.  Most of the changes have been small; I still feel these poems are best as they are: written by a teen, posted by her adult self 15 years later.  But this one needs some work and I can’t figure out what it is I was trying to write.  It reads weird.  What rhythm was in my head at the time?

   What I find interesting 

    I tried Writing 201:Poetry.  I thought my poems from that course were decent.  I just wish it didn’t take a prompt to come up with it.  The course teaches about a few forms, I guess maybe they’re the most well-known or something[?] and I didn’t find them as difficult as I thought I would. When I started poetry project I noticed I used a few of those forms without knowing it.  They must be the most natural to write.

What’s the point?

    In high school I wanted to graduate and try creative writing and pursue something in arts.  I think I have just enough natural something to learn a little something and earn some money, but what exactly are all of these something’s?  I never had an idea.  I don’t come from those kind of people.  I know people from lower places and less come up higher and with more but for some reason…I’m not like that.  I felt discouragement everywhere I turned and everything I wanted seemed irrelevant in the world I live/d in.  I never held on to any dreams because in the end there’s nothing to do with them but watch them drift away. Reality doesn’t allow for everyone to be their own person.  So I never did anything.  People like me have no room for failure and very little room to risk a chance at success.  And this is the me speaking as if I had never become physically disabled in my late twenties.

Painting swirly thingies

   I painted my room’s walls in different murals.  It started after Lucky and I broke up before my 17th birthday. Maybe I’m a year off; I can’t recall.Picture1The wall of fairies was the most detailed and I didn’t like it as a whole but I liked the individual little projects.  I have nothing outside of public ed art so I had difficulty with the whole making-it-look-real thing but I found all of its struggles completely fulfilling.

   The thing with the murals is that I hated painting in the lines.  My favorite part was the shading but my most favorite-ist part was the leftover paint at the end of the day (which sometimes occurred the following afternoon).  Because my funds were limited I’d use money on paint and brushes and use plastic butter tub lids as palettes. Acrylic paint dries into rubbery peely things when you use it on plastic so I loved to paint the lids in beautiful multicolored swirls with the leftover paint then peel it off. Then came the day I wanted to paint the outside bedroom door. I had tubes of random colors and no money so I did what I could with what I had and I did what I enjoyed: I blended with swirly thingies and such except I wouldn’t peel it off.

This is, unfortunately, the best of my painting [IMO]

   I never really did much more after we moved out of that house.  I had to get a job and start paying rent to my parents so I no longer had time to dick around with a paintbrush and a hopeless fantasy.  I’m not sure what the point of art is outside of hobby or expression anyway.   I can’t imagine relying on art for a living.  At some point wouldn’t you only create for profit and doesn’t that diminish creativity and purpose?

    When I read my old poems as I post them, I think of everything I felt as I originally wrote them and it makes me realize how little I feel now compared to then.  15 years is a long time to forget how to feel with such intensity. I think of how committed I was to those murals and I cannot dismiss the glaring reality that I am not passionate about much of anything anymore.

   I’d have to dig deep and probably move as far away from my life as possible to find the me that feels all the feels this woman typing no longer understands.

   Maybe I could have made something of my blending swirly skills.



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