Army surplus parachute

The ACAD Winter show & sale is up and it is monumental and terrifying. It confounds me how they can fit so much art into such small spaces. Honestly, it's overwhelming to step into one of the alcoves and just try to take it all in. Somehow, it feels like you're on a timeline, like, because this isn't a gallery, you've got to KEEP MOVING AND NEVER STOP. So I scan the walls and try to take snapshots with my brain, because I know that I may never see this stuff again. I often forget just how amazing some of the work produced at ACAD is, probably because most of it is in hiding. Once first year is done, art projects become secret operations that remain skilfully hidden until one of the Big Days, when they can burst forth with all the shock and celebration of a surprise party. I often need these days to remind me that, yes, I am going to an ART college, a real one, and maybe I should show it a little more respect.
I'm being hit with another wave of cliche anxiety, and it's driving me up the walls. Any time I have an idea for a project, the Art Snob part of my brain starts attacking it with words like "trite" and "obvious" and "insincere". I think part of it has to do with our increased exposure to real artists and the contention that art you can explain is worthless. Now, art has to be vague. It has to express something that you can't express any other way. It's not enough to make meaningful art--the meaning has to be intangible and visceral. But it has to be real at the same time. And god forbid that you make something that's already been done before. If it's done once, it can't be done again. I know it's just my lack of self-confidence talking, but boy howdy does it ever get in the way.

Gubbish.

Since I've been in College, I have become increasingly aware of High School Social Roles. The full weight of my realisation came when I visited my brother's youth group on Friday. The social structure there was frighteningly clear; it was like watching a band of gorillas or lions in their natural habitat. There was a core of extroverts, with King Curtis sitting in the middle. Curtis is the coolest kid there, the funniest, the most charismatic, the most handsome. On his left were the girls, dressed in the brightest colours they could find, giggling and flirting and falling over one another. Jesters. On his right were the boys, lounging and joking about AIDS and The Gays, all wearing black jackets, white Tshirts, and blue jeans. And on the perimeter were the people who knew they would never belong. There were the Girls Who Acted Like Guys, the ones who wore dull clothing and never screamed. There were the Guys Who Acted Like Girls, who didn't want to be offensive and refrained from saying anything. And there were the Old People like me, who had grown out of the hierarchy and could now look on from the outside. None of us could socialise with the core. Even within the core, relationships were strained. There were introverts peppered here and there, who would only be talked to if other people were forced to acknowledge them. If girls wanted to interact with guys, there had to be a degree of separation there. They could never be on the same playing field. Converstion topics were narrowed and gendered. If a girl talked about anything other than her clothes or her pets, the converstion would die for a second and then get redirected towards one of those two subjects. And if a guy talked about anything personal, anything that even remotely hinted at vulnerability, he would immediately retract it with a "just kidding" and keep on joking.

I am so glad to be out of High School.

Okay

I was once a great multitasker. I can hardly believe myself when I look back a few months and remember the things I was able to do at work. I was like an automaton; I was a machine. I hated it, sure, but other people admired me for my ability to do so many things at once and still remain polite and on the positive side of a breakdown. What happened? How did I get from there to here? Now the idea of "one thing at a time" has been taken to the extreme. I feel like I've been turned off. I'm not interested in anything anymore. If I don't get something done, there's no guilt; there's no stress. I just don't care anymore. I don't feel anything when I finish a project that's been plaguing me for weeks. There's no sense of relief or release. It's just another day. Once I finish something, I go back to doing nothing. And I mean nothing. It doesn't matter if I'm in front of the TV or the computer, reading a book or deep in conversation. It's all the same for me. I'm really not a fan of this emotional stagnation. It seems to have nothing to do with anything, but it happens all the time. It'll just show up one day and drag me down until I don't notice it, and then it disappears as quickly and quietly as it came. I don't know how it happens, and I don't know how to get rid of it. It's like an outside apathetic force that envelops me in a state of transience. I try so hard to avoid it when I'm doing okay, but it always catches up to me in the end. It would be frustrating, but right now it just feels kid of disappointing. Everything's been put on hold for a while, and I'm afraid it won't be back to normal until sometime next term. I miss being able to work.
Sorry if I brought you down. I'll probably feel better tomorrow.

I miss you all like you wouldn't beieve.

Perpetually at 49 posts

The other day, while I was on the bus, I heard the following conversation between two kids:

kid 1: How many cellphones have you gone through in the past year?
kid 2: Eight.
kid 1: Eight?
kid 2: Yeah, well, my parents keep buying me new ones so...

Marvel at my restraint as I said nothing. That conversation filled me with loathing so powerful I almost found myself grumbling "kids these days...". How on earth did this happen? One cell phone alone is a tremendous strain on the world's resources, but friggin' eight?! Questions flooded my brain: does he have anything to do with the expenses associated with said cellphones? What was he doing with them? Did they break or just become unfashionable? Does he know where cellphones come from? Does he know what they're made of? Is he grateful of his parents' foolish generosity? There is something very wrong with the world if a kid in junior high school can motor through cellphones without a second thought and rely on his parents to keep giving them to him as if they were his god-given right. I couldn't help but wonder what his future will be like, and I have a terrible sinking feeling that he's going to be tremendously successful.