This one is really deep, and I figure college professors will probably start calling me, asking if they can include this in their classes.
IN THE DREAMHOUSE : arterial spray
Usually I can watch horror movies right before bed without any problem, but last night I watched the last 20 minutes of the Amityville remake. It's not even a good remake, but there's a scene where Ryan Reynolds is seeing visions of the previous occupant's suicide by throat-slitting, and you see Ryan's face covered in showers of arterial blood spray. As I watched it I was like, "Eh... Whatever. Time for bed."
But I had this nightmare that I was in a multi-level hotel, going up and down elevators trying to escape a serial killer. I ended up in a lounge just as the killer entered the room. Just by chance, I was behind some other people at the bar, mostly obscured from the killer's view. He had a switchblade, and cut down a few people around me, so I dropped to the ground with them and played possum.
He slit the throat of a man right next to me, and as I lay there on the ground praying I wouldn't be discovered I could feel the man's blood spattering across me.
Luckily the nightmare either ended there, or shifted scenes, so I wasn't discovered. But it was bad enough, man!
I woke up, and my mind quickly shifted from serial killers and blood spray to diarrhea. The word itself. It's a nuanced word, with the double-R and the silent H. The double-R gives it an appropriate growl/grunt, and the silent H reflects a miserable silent breath of discomfort. I started getting ideas for poop-related pop art, and that's when I realized it was time to just accept that I wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep.
I got out of bed, fed the dog, got a cup of coffee, and here I am...
But I had this nightmare that I was in a multi-level hotel, going up and down elevators trying to escape a serial killer. I ended up in a lounge just as the killer entered the room. Just by chance, I was behind some other people at the bar, mostly obscured from the killer's view. He had a switchblade, and cut down a few people around me, so I dropped to the ground with them and played possum.
He slit the throat of a man right next to me, and as I lay there on the ground praying I wouldn't be discovered I could feel the man's blood spattering across me.
Luckily the nightmare either ended there, or shifted scenes, so I wasn't discovered. But it was bad enough, man!
I woke up, and my mind quickly shifted from serial killers and blood spray to diarrhea. The word itself. It's a nuanced word, with the double-R and the silent H. The double-R gives it an appropriate growl/grunt, and the silent H reflects a miserable silent breath of discomfort. I started getting ideas for poop-related pop art, and that's when I realized it was time to just accept that I wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep.
I got out of bed, fed the dog, got a cup of coffee, and here I am...
SCATTERSHOT
This week is agonizingly slow, dragging by legless and nearly dehydrated. It's finals week for the students, so the library has been either frenziedly busy (before, between, and after classes) or eerily silent.
At my psychiatrist's office yesterday, I confided that I could feel my brain trying to get anxious and fixated negatively on some things lately, but so far I've been self-aware enough to nip that in the bud. Thanks to the drugs. I made a point to insist that I felt the drugs were still working, because I'm not ready to have my dosages increased, or to be put on something more heavy-duty. But I felt it was important to lay a little groundwork of honesty, in case I grow increasingly spazzy, and need to have my prescriptions tweaked.
The fact that I don't have a publisher yet for my illustrated children's middle-grade fantasy novel makes me feel un-anchored and nervous. I've only written 5 or 6 chapters of it, and only submitted it to (and been rejected by) one publisher. I know I should relax and just enjoy working on it. I've been wanting to shift gears from comics & graphic novels to something more... "novelly" for years now. But my brain doesn't do well without clear deadlines and agreements.
Maybe I should go straight home and work really hard on it. Maybe I should put my energy into exercising, eating less, and trying to lose some weight. I am 40 now, after all. Maybe I should put my energy into some potentially "fine art" type of creativity. There's (potentially) more money in that, from what I've seen. Why be constrained by the format of a book at all? Sometimes it's hard to tell if I feel like writing, or drawing. And when I definitely feel like writing, part of me wants to work on the children's novel, and another part of me wants to write something for adults, like a full-on horror novel, or something more complex and harder to fit into a simplified category.
Maybe I just need a nap.
But then I remember that I got a notice from the IRS about a minor tax discrepancy from my 2010 taxes. I need to figure that out, in case I need to file a correction. The notice I received didn't give a deadline, though, so it's easy to procrastinate, especially something confusing like taxes.
My mom was kind enough to give me an awesome industrial-type pin-back button (badge) maker for Christmas. It's a small press with metal pieces and a lever. I should make a bunch of buttons and try to sell them on Etsy, or at conventions and stuff. Maybe THAT'S what I should do this evening. I've made some buttons already, of course, but not enough to start selling.
Maybe I DO need more drugs. Why can't I let myself just relax, take a nap, read, watch some TV? Is that really so terrible?
But I also have this painting project I started, then abandoned temporarily for button-making. The painting project involves a big metal Medieval shield that hangs on the wall. I've already spray-painted it black and painted a weird blue animal face over what used to be a coat-of-arms. I've been planning to add some Martha Stewart glitter paint to it. The bottles are lined up eagerly on my drafting table: blue, amethyst, and green.
HOLY CRAP the choir next door to the library is singing "Send In the Clowns." What have I done to deserve that?
Anyway, maybe I just need to drink more often. Oh- and then lately it's been really grim because the Librarian I work with found out that her husband has terminal lung cancer. It's awful beyond words, and I feel terrible for both of them. Of course she didn't want everyone to know right away because she didn't want to have to talk about it all the time. But people have started finding out and coming in to commiserate. And asking ME about it. Even on Facebook. So I'm trying to keep my mind off mortality, but it's been difficult.
I thought of a great band name: "Diarrhea Envy." Get it? Like "penis envy," only with diarrhea...? No?
At my psychiatrist's office yesterday, I confided that I could feel my brain trying to get anxious and fixated negatively on some things lately, but so far I've been self-aware enough to nip that in the bud. Thanks to the drugs. I made a point to insist that I felt the drugs were still working, because I'm not ready to have my dosages increased, or to be put on something more heavy-duty. But I felt it was important to lay a little groundwork of honesty, in case I grow increasingly spazzy, and need to have my prescriptions tweaked.
The fact that I don't have a publisher yet for my illustrated children's middle-grade fantasy novel makes me feel un-anchored and nervous. I've only written 5 or 6 chapters of it, and only submitted it to (and been rejected by) one publisher. I know I should relax and just enjoy working on it. I've been wanting to shift gears from comics & graphic novels to something more... "novelly" for years now. But my brain doesn't do well without clear deadlines and agreements.
Maybe I should go straight home and work really hard on it. Maybe I should put my energy into exercising, eating less, and trying to lose some weight. I am 40 now, after all. Maybe I should put my energy into some potentially "fine art" type of creativity. There's (potentially) more money in that, from what I've seen. Why be constrained by the format of a book at all? Sometimes it's hard to tell if I feel like writing, or drawing. And when I definitely feel like writing, part of me wants to work on the children's novel, and another part of me wants to write something for adults, like a full-on horror novel, or something more complex and harder to fit into a simplified category.
Maybe I just need a nap.
But then I remember that I got a notice from the IRS about a minor tax discrepancy from my 2010 taxes. I need to figure that out, in case I need to file a correction. The notice I received didn't give a deadline, though, so it's easy to procrastinate, especially something confusing like taxes.
My mom was kind enough to give me an awesome industrial-type pin-back button (badge) maker for Christmas. It's a small press with metal pieces and a lever. I should make a bunch of buttons and try to sell them on Etsy, or at conventions and stuff. Maybe THAT'S what I should do this evening. I've made some buttons already, of course, but not enough to start selling.
Maybe I DO need more drugs. Why can't I let myself just relax, take a nap, read, watch some TV? Is that really so terrible?
But I also have this painting project I started, then abandoned temporarily for button-making. The painting project involves a big metal Medieval shield that hangs on the wall. I've already spray-painted it black and painted a weird blue animal face over what used to be a coat-of-arms. I've been planning to add some Martha Stewart glitter paint to it. The bottles are lined up eagerly on my drafting table: blue, amethyst, and green.
HOLY CRAP the choir next door to the library is singing "Send In the Clowns." What have I done to deserve that?
Anyway, maybe I just need to drink more often. Oh- and then lately it's been really grim because the Librarian I work with found out that her husband has terminal lung cancer. It's awful beyond words, and I feel terrible for both of them. Of course she didn't want everyone to know right away because she didn't want to have to talk about it all the time. But people have started finding out and coming in to commiserate. And asking ME about it. Even on Facebook. So I'm trying to keep my mind off mortality, but it's been difficult.
I thought of a great band name: "Diarrhea Envy." Get it? Like "penis envy," only with diarrhea...? No?