Got a desk
I just got a desk.
A foldable one, It has more than 50 inches (size queen; jokes are welcome). It had to be large, regarding what I’m gonna do with it. Funny enough, she has no idea WTF she’s doing.
This desk implies structure, all together, not as much physical pain when drawing, painting, and writing while sitting on the floor; At the same time, she’s big enough to lay, basically, most of the ‘canvases’ she owns, definitely a lat top, into the bargain, some parallel art supplies.
Even though, she fits lots of shit on her, she doesn’t fit all the mess I normally have on the floor nearby to achieve, what I call, art. Hence, she intimidates me. Nevertheless, she was ordered for a reason: I need more structure, do art without pain, be a grown up, and shit like this.
The desk was there, looking at me, I’ve decided to ‘start with her’ in the middle of this writing. Welcome to ‘live’ writing. Even though, I had to take the living room chair for this action, since my foldable ‘artsy’ chair hasn’t arrived yet, I was unequivocal to face the fear. Gladly, writing, unlike painting, doesn’t damage the faux leather chairs from the living room. So she will go on and on about it now. Buckle it up.
Sitting on my padded faux chair, awaiting my new bloody foldable chair, she just faces the anxiety of her future. Even though, what is to come is all foldable, the desk, the chair, my future; She wonders, if she is in an office cubicle she just created to herself?
I almost got stuck in the complete life story, nonetheless, no time for this in a one write off post. Given my raise up, bullying over the years at school, and lifestyle choices: She believes to be subversive. I love Dada, I love Shiva, I love breaking the ceiling just to smash your privilege or ignorance in your face. At the same time, she’s growing up, she needs a foldable table so her titanium femur doesn’t bug her all the time, so her back doesn’t scream at her in the morning. I’m in pain, lots of pain.
Now she feels the artist bullshit drama, is the pain avoided going to affect my art? Is it gonna soften my message? Not being able to have all messy pencils on the table gonna make a difference? Did I sell out? Having a s*ty foldable chair will affect my deliverable to the world? - All crap, even though knowing is crap, she thinks about it. Hilarious enough, she doesn’t even have anything in her hand: No client, no commission, no fan, and she’s worried about her artistic pride when there’s nothing anywhere.
I don’t know, writing one time offs over a night, without editors or, without revising for years in a row, is that wise? I don’t know, I’m being myself, come for my grammar, come for my bullshit! I’m here for the drama, until, I'm not. How much is writing, how much is art? How much is crap? I don’t know, I just got a desk, and somewhat a self imposed cubicle; So, who knows what she’s gonna undertake?
