chrewths

I read this thing L.A wrote the other day about how she's never content writing about anything but her own waxes and wanes. Which I felt pretty hard when I was reading it. I REALLY want to write about this Josh Smith show. And I REALLY want to write about alot of the music I've been listening to. And I REALLY want to write about how my great grandmother died.

But I can't. Or at least, I don't really want to. I guess it's just not really as interesting to me as the often morose, sometimes hilarious, always intense permutations of my own brain. Like the status of my period, and which guy I'm seeing, and how dirty my sheets are and what my cat's shit smells like, and how often I shit, who said what to who is often more facinating then the deconstruction of painting through repitition and forced deaestheticazation. Although I do like the show and Josh a lot. Possibly because I think he realizes that his body and life are greater than the sum of any number of paintings he could create.

Maybe I just took too much benadryl today and I can't think about anything. I ate some sweet potatoes. I'd like to think that the mundane details of my life would be eclipsed by some grand sweeping overarching concepts. Maybe I'm completely neurotic and anxious, true enough, but I think the option to let go of my ideas about what people should think about all day all night might be an altogether freeing one. Which is not to say I'm unintelligent- possibly self-indulgent, but more just interested in the "mundane" human functions of myself and those that surround me as an idea of life. Being alive doesn't have to involve a meta inquisition into other peoples thoughts and outputs- but can be the practice of involving yourself in the action of living to those that surround you.

I guess that's altogether meta in and of itself.

I'm losing my job. The gallery is closing. Maybe I'm completely numb right now but I really have little to say about that. I was ready. I will be ready?