Ups and Downs

It'd be nice, I think, if my life could pick a mood and run with it. It seems as though for every positive development which comes my way I am immediately assailed by a negative one. I thought I had finally rounded the bend, so to speak, in my quest for fulfillment, but fate is conspiring against me.

Bah.

In art class the professor seems more keyed into abstract, emotional, contrast than detail. Today we were working with graphite, sketching cow and horse skulls. They're marvelous subjects, as y'might expect, but maddeningly complex; one could spend hours on an eye socket alone. I started in charcoal, my medium of choice, because of its malleability in shadow work. One can blend and smudge and establish great subtleties in tone. One also gets one's hands stained black and grey, making one look like an actual artist. The dirty, distracted genius type. Alas, the assignment called for graphite, which is more stiff and precise, but a trifle weak.
My art work is often meticulous, and I use many sketching, scratching dots and dashes, rather than flowing, sweeping lines. I opted for photo-realism with the skulls, painstakingly attempting to capture every crack, fissure, smudge, and bump. [Side note: smudge-and-bump sounds like a euphemism for sex, like slap-and-tickle.] The other students all tried some variation of heavily contrasted abstraction --deep blacks, glaring whites, strange angles. Granted, their efforts were visually arresting, but that's just one way to tackle the project of representing a physical object through two-dimensional means. I was dissatisfied with my work until it was hanging on the wall, next to the others. Not that it was better, but it was certainly more intricate. And it looked more impressive when not compared directly to the subject. When seen on its own, rather than as a duplicate of an actual display, the flaws disappeared, the minor deviations from reality no longer mattered.
I am glad to be drawing again, but recognize the need for more practice. Today in class I was struck by the fear that I would in the near future be cajoled into sketching a naked girl whom I would be attempting to woo (a la Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic), and produce a distorted, confused drawing of her. This is perhaps the most irrational fear ever conceived, as the chances of me even being in the same room as a naked girl at any point in the foreseeable future are only slightly better than me filling out three winning lottery tickets blindfolded while enjoying a ride in the space shuttle.

I finally got my motorcycle. A-thank you. She's a beaut. I have yet to name her, in fact, haven't even considered naming her until right this very moment. I named all my cars, why not a motorcycle. I have also yet to post pictures of her on Facebook. Partly because it would feel disingenuous, me being the most inexperienced of riders, and still awaiting the majority of my gear (vintage goggles and a sweet leather jacket I ordered today). Partly because I am striving to abstain from posting details of my life on Facebook as a cheap means of getting attention. I feel it instills the effort with more gravitas and dignity if I learn to ride properly and let my friends discover on their own, whenever they do, that I am now a "biker." Partly because my mother went to Florida and took my camera with her. My shins are bruised, my wrists sore, and my nerves raw from the awkward, frantic practice rides I've taken. I feel it might take me some time to get the hang of riding.

I am gonna buy some leather chaps.

I think I need a cell phone.

My stomach burn is peeling nicely. All part of the plan.

I have come to the realization that I am fatally inept with women. My natural timidity and low self-esteem have really shaped me into a hopeless wreck.
I was at the RMV the other day, right, and this attractive girl comes and sits next to me. She chats with her friend about how she doesn't know what to do because she needs to get the plates off of her car to turn them in, but has no tools and knows no one in the area who can help her.
I continued reading my copy of the Advocate, missing several key opportunities to leap in, but finally ask, without looking up from the crossword, if her car is in the lot.
She says that yes, it is.
I explain that I have a set of pliers and would be more than happy to lend a hand. We chat for a bit as we wait for my number to be called, and after I register the new bike, she and I set out for her car. She's a local college student, switching the car over to her name, yadda yadda. I tell some jokes, semi-gracefully remove the license plates (falling only once on my ass), and walk her back to the RMV. I should have worked in some way to ask for her number, but just shook her hand and wished her luck, and headed out.
Yesterday I was at The Thirsty Mind, looking at books. This cute brunette begins looking in the same section, right next to me. We had to move around one another to see certain titles. She considers Interview with the Vampire, a volume I have myself read and enjoyed. I was at the precipice of saying, "Nice choice," and launching into my review of the novel as well as my thoughts on the genre, the author, and books in general, and had several long moments to do so . . . and did not.
Not that we would have moved right from Anne Rice to fellatio, but I should still have chatted her up.

I used to be held back in talking to girls by a low self-image, which is slowly ebbing. Now I am hamstrung by two other factors. I am without my own phone and my own place. I really took those two vacancies for granted when I was with Becca, as she didn't care so much about either one. Now though, suppose I actually meed and talk to a girl. The fact that I am without a cell phone will arrise and scuttle me in the first few seconds of a number-exchange. (She would do well not to call me at home.) And if that is overcome, and things go well, I can hardly invite her back to my place.

These flaws must be remedied, and that right speedily.

It is a curious aspect of human psychology (or, at least my psychology) that we can go months without considering some facet which is missing from our lives (i.e. a romantic relationship), until it is brought to our attention that we might be within reaching distance of restoring said facet. All of a sudden it becomes something of an obsession, no matter how hard we try and keep our head level our expectations low.

In the poignant words of Mike Doughty, "I've seen a half-a-zillion girls and haven't spoken to a single one of them."

Gosh! Has it come to that? Am I so maudlin and uninspired that I must quote lyrics from a favorite band?

Best to stop here then, I feel.

Hopefully I shall post again soon with some good news.

'Night.

Shadow of a Doubt

I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinkin' "this guy is frustratingly intermittent with his blog posting." You might also be thinkin' "his constant proclamations to reform the aforementioned fault are laughable to the point of absurdity." And possibly you think "his fashion sense is spotty at best and his attempts to achieve an effortless, tussled look with his hair fall flat."
Well, first of all, fuck off.
Second of all, you're right on all three counts.
Third, Happy Groundhog's Day. (Mighta just shot m'self in the foot with that message, as I now have to finish this post in two hours . . .)

All right. So my Planet Fitness membership comes with unlimited free tanning. I am told by a fairly reputable -- if meglomanaical -- source that the appearance of muscle definition is enhanced by darker skin tone. The browner one's skin, the better one's physique looks. Something to do with light and shadow. Anyway, in my never-ending battle to make my already studly bod look better, I decided to try a bit of tanning.
The fella at the gym -- a flamboyant chap with a greasy faux hawk and an admirable bronze glow himself -- set me up for fifteen minutes. That didn't seem too long. I had tanned before and gone in for ten, with pitiable results, so an extra five minutos in the sun tank seemed just right. I endured the sweaty quarter of an hour and popped off of the bed with no visible coloring. I showered and drove home, feeling pleasantly spent after a challenging work-out and the tanning session.
That night I noticed the first tinglings of irritation on my stomach and back.
I awoke the next morning looking like the Coppertone Baby. Only more uneven. My tummy is a bright, fire-engine red, but the color stops at my chest, which remained a pale, wormy white. My arms tanned, as did my face, but my back and the back of my neck are burnt. My shins are still white, but the fronts of my thighs are hot pink. It feels as though someone bent me over and beat the backs of my legs with a belt (which, of course, just makes me think of my ex-girlfriend. [Sidenote: not really. The ex was never that into the whole BDSM thing, save for a rather splendid birthday spanking she gave me one year . . .]).
I am bemused that the tan turned so quickly into a horrendous burn, but even more bemused that the burn is so uneven. I vary from parchment white to jaundice yellow, through almond brown, into '80's neon pink and lobster crimson. And I tanned with my tighty whities on, leaving some rather dramatic tan lines.
So, ouch to my pride and ouch to my skin parts. Insult and injury.

I just sat down and read my horoscope in The Advocate and am once again awesruck at the profundity and personal applicability of Mr. Brezny's work. Every week the astrological almanac speaks to me in depth on a very close, individual level. I am not one much for astrology (granted there are some aspects of my specific sign, especially the sexual aspects, that I find uncannily accurate), but for some reason The Advocate is always poignant and apt.
In some small way I have turned my life over to a vague sense of superstitions and pagan, nature beliefs, lapsed Catholic that I am. I do not fully and reverently believe in omens and signs, but I still occasionally read into coicidental developments.

The only dream I remember of late involved me crusading around like Jack Bauer from 24, trying to save a little Chinese kid who was being persued by some shady corporation intent on studying  children with special abilities. Eventually I wound up in a clinic, pretending to be a patient. A nurse approached me and asked to see what I was drawing. I looked at the table in front of me and saw the journal I took to Australia, back in sophomore year of high school. I opened it, flipped through, and found a comic drawn by my former friend Caitlin. (It's always difficult to explain dreams, because of the seamless and frequent perspective shifts.) Anyway, I went from looking at the book to being in the book. We were in the woods, and then we were in a kiddie pool into which leapt several alligators. "Stay away from that guy," I whispered, pointing a particularly big one, "he's a California crocodile."
At some point we made love in the woods, but in the comic book it looked like a fight scene in a cartoon; just a dust cloud out of which jabbed a limb here or there (which, to be fair, is a close approximation of how I make love). In one panel she illustrated us in the manner of one of my favorite comic book artists, Alex Ross.
I viewed all of this and thought to myself, in the dream, "How did I ever let this friendship slip thought my fingers?" (We are no longer talking. Long story).
I suppose I should follow my half-hearted, half-developed beliefs an call her.

Okay . . .

Oh, art class.
I'm taking a basic drawing course at HCC. It feels good to be back in school again, after three years. I'd never taken an art class before. It is simultaneously legitimate in that art, specifically drawing, is a primal and effective way of expressing oneself, and also a fairly frivolous exploit. I feel the epitome of academia, strutting about campus with my portfolio. I feel I am finally enjoying a necessary component of the college experience.
The professor, a distractedly intense little guy, reminds me of Jeffrey Combs. He could tell that I had previous art class experience. It's not that impressive, just something in the way I handle the charcoal, I'm sure. At the time we were simply making marks on newsprint.
One thing I like is how the prof stresses drawing with our shoulers or hips, rather than with our wrists. My massage training came into play here, helping with my body mechanics. I bend at the knees, almost adopting a tae kwon do saddle stance, and lean and pivot. Massage also led me to be more hands-on. Once one has applied enough charcoal to the page, one can spread it around, using fingertips and palms, deepening shadows and blending blacks and greys.
I regret not using my massage training more with the females. I feel my training is going to waste, me just using my hands to make tarts and sketch vases. I should have put my new found tactile predelictions to use with my ex-girlfriend. (Although she was always unsettled by my taking massage classes, and jealous of my touching other people). My hands long to feel warm flesh again. (That makes me sound like a serial killer, I know, but I mean it in an intimate, romantic way).

Okay. I've missed the deadline by about an hour and a half, but I am two blocks past giving a fuck.

So I bid you all good evening and I will talk to y'all later.