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.