This summer, I was so excited when I joined The Brooklyn Art Library’s Sketchbook Project. I spent hours brainstorming, listing, visualizing, drafting.
Earlier this week, I stopped by the art store to pick up some paper and glue. I figure if I assemble my collages and glue them in, I won’t need to worry about ruining the book.
The guy working behind the counter was adorable: cheerful, energetic, handsome. He asked me what I work with generally.
“Oh! I have no answer to that question. I’m just — I — I joined the Brooklyn Art Library’s Sketchbook Project. And so — I’m — I’ve got this paper and glue because I’m afraid I’ll–”
“Don’t be afraid. Just have fun.”
He gave me a marker. So sweet.
Yesterday and today, I sat down with my supplies and my new marker. Just pulling my art stuff from random corners of the apartment reminds me of how disorganized I am beneath the surface. I have so much useless crap stored away that needs to be thrown out.
I remember what it feels like to create, to communicate with images, to get lost in the process, but something’s going on with me right now and I just can’t seem to find my way there. I feel cut off from my best self.
My negative voices are super loud, super rude, super strong.
Forty three years old, under-employed, hungover, low energy, playing with markers and scissors as if what I make will add up to anything.
I ate dessert four times this week. What is wrong with me? Who am I? Where am I going?
It’s not supposed to be like this. None of it was supposed to be like this.
I thought I’d push through and just get one page done. If only I could get started, it would be better.
But then the kitten girls joined me and suddenly it was too crowded.
I’ll have to try again another time.