The Idiot

I am ashamed of yesterday's post and have taken it down.  WTF?  That's not me, not how I operate.  I was blaming someone else for my lack of talent and motivation.  

"Oh, boo-hoo. . . look what happened to me!"

Bullshit!  Everything that happens to us, by and large, is the outcome of the decisions we make.  Not completely, sure.  When the nuclear war begins, each of us can take only a tiny bit of credit.  But in terms of my intimate life. . . yea.  I was shitting on someone who did everything she could to keep me alive.  I'm not saying that has been a good thing, but still.  Let me run through all the shitty things I "might" have done in the relationship.  No. . . let's not do that.  Rather, let me do what I can.  The post is gone and here's the apology.  

When I woke up this morning, I thought about what I might write today.  Then I remembered yesterday's post and went into a cold, hard sweat.  What a fucking idiot I am. 

I guess what I revealed yesterday, as is most often the case, was more about my own flaws than hers.  Yea. . . I'm still coping, I guess.  

So. . . I'll never do that again.  

I wish I could have the whole of yesterday back, really.  It was not a sterling day.  I picked a storage tub full of the smaller prints that I have made, many of the images experiments in alternative processes back when I could do projects in the studio.  There are transfers of all types, even things I was trying to invent.  There are hand colored prints and prints on a variety of papers and surfaces.  Most of those were uninteresting at best and utter failures at worst.  I sat last night sorting through them.  I pulled out a bunch of small prints I didn't want to keep.  I texted Q to see if he wanted me to send them to him so he could throw them away for me.  He FaceTimed me.  

Of course I answered with my usual savior faire--"Why in the fuck are you FaceTiming me?"

"Hey. . . hey. . . apologize. . . ."  He put the lens on his son.  He's an idiot, too, of course.  He knows how I am.  Why would he have his son on our FaceTime call?  

But wait!!!  Just after apologizing, here I am doing it all over again!  Blaming Q for calling me, deflecting from my own egregious behavior.  

So. . . let's skip ahead.  He told me to send it all.  As I went through the big tub, I made a pile for burning.  I am going to burn hundreds of photos and failed attempts.  I was, that is, until I remembered this morning that I had trashed the fire pit.  I have nowhere to burn the stuff, so it either goes back in the container or I buy a new fire pit.  Inertia gets the better of me.  Maybe I will put it all back and do nothing.  I'm good at that.  Ask my old girlfriend.  

If I was an idiot yesterday, I'm a dolt this morning.  I ate a gummy before bed.  I don't know why.  I don't really like it.  And now, I feel as if I don't process the stuff out of my system quick enough.  I am thick and slow, a haggard piece of meat.  It is Friday, and I look forward to something good for dinner.  Takeout.  Though. . . I should go out.  Maybe shrimp tacos or a mahi sandwich at the Pig.  Maybe.  I don't know.  What should I do?  Tell me what to do?

"Well, first off, quit drinking so much.  Stick with wine and beer, at least.  And stand up straight.  Jesus Christ, you act like someone is beating on you.  Buck up you privileged little fucker.  And go somewhere.  I'm tired of hearing you bitch about hanging around the house."

Good talk.  Thanks.  

Q boarded his flight to NYC a few minutes ago.  He suggested that he might have a place for me to stay for a week or so at the beginning of August.  I looked at The Met, MoMa, The Gug, and The Whitney to see what was showing.  Nothing, really, that I am interested in.  More polemics than "art," it seems to me.  But, you know. . . we live in polemic times.  But there is always The Neue Gallery, though, and the newly renovated Frick.  

I don't know. . . I don't know.  I am afflicted with catatonia.  

"Ain't it a cold, cold world."

I might have to leave you, I think's what she said
Wish I could sleep 'stead of tossing in bed
And I find myself thinking I'd be better off dead
Ain't it a cold, cold world