Thanks to everyone who came out last night to Arthop. I wasn't expecting so much love! I had started off the day stressed out and grumpy (conked my head hard on my truck--don't ask-- and woke up to a messy room and too much to do) but by the end of the day grew more relaxed. Laura Spotch took this picture of me in front of my work. I look a little like my eyes can't handle light.
Later on I saw Ronnie and William. Nothing like talking two artists I love after showing somewhere. I wanted to see Ronnie play, but my newly instated old lady ways won out. When I'm around him, a flood of feelings comes back, unresolved from around the time I first met him. They don't really have so much to do with him, so much as that quivering unexplored discovery that was steeped in art and Fresno. I was so excited and had so much hope ten years ago. Now, begrudgingly, I feel locked into a life I didn't really want in the first place.
And, woe is me, that's about as personal as I can get on this blog. It's typically self indulgent to write something about it (I am a twenty-something, after all), but I'm not self indulgent enough to think that it will garner a reaction. I'm not trying to be oblique or mysterious, and if you know me in person then you also know that the truth is too depressing to get into on a blog, for crimony.
The things I felt nausious just thinking about before, I could do with ease now. I could quit drinking diet soda, a nastier habit than one would like to admit. I could tour with the band I was in. I could move halfway across the country for some wet tantilizing feeling. Who wouldn't, right? The joke is constantly on me, because these are little baked goods of challenges, masterbatory ex-tangibles that I'm trying to cling to and pop into everything I'm lucky enough to jab my fingers into now. I took my sweet life for granted. This is a new apocalyptic time, where I am running against death. Every decision I make is tempered with inevitable death.
I feel stronger and wizened and bitter, like my teeth are razor sharp. I think one time I wrote to Brendan Fowler. I might have erased it before I hit "send". What was I so scared of?
What are you so scared of?
I want to find these letters and rewrite them. I want to send them off.
Posted by Aurora at 5:34 PM