Well, I haven't really updated in a while. I have a few moments now (It is just after one o'clock in the morning) and will try to figure out something to write --even if it is just to alert the world to my continued, but boring existence. ;o)
School's out. Has been for about a month. It seems much farther away than that, but it's just an illustration of the relativity of time, I suppose. I'm working full-time (six days a week) now with no study obligations for the summer and it works. I enjoy it and it keeps me busy. Weeks go by so much faster when I'm working most of the time.
I am doing more writing and drawing since school has let out. Hoping to pull out the paints once I get a day off or at least figure out an easy way to pack my easel in the car. My pictures aren't terribly exciting, but they're therapeutic. There's something about pencil over paper, turning lines into images, that calms me as rote practices and routine calm others.
Getting back into sketching and painting has also led me to some contemplation. For such a long time, I brushed off the works of artists I could not understand (one that flummoxed me for a while was Jackson Pollock) . Now I have been struck lately by the urge to represent on paper and canvas, not relationships, situations and places, but feelings. At the risk of writing a verbose bunch of drivel, I continue on: What color is anger? Is it red with burning indignation or blue with that cold, bottled fury? I know some (myself formerly included) who would pass up Picasso's Guernica, for Monet's Waterlilies any day. Up close, Monet's famous lilies are nothing but messy splotches of color on a gigantic canvas. In reality, Picasso's is more detailed. Why credit (or discredit, I suppose, depending on your opinion) one over the other?
All right, so I'll step off of my soap box now and get back to the topic at hand. Well, as much of a topic as I ever had. It was 'updating', I believe?
Writing-wise, I've just been working on a few things I've had forever: a small (as-of-yet) collection of poetry and a novel. I know the reality is that they will never be published and will likely only be read by myself and perhaps a friend or two, but I write just the same. And just the same as any unpublished author, I hope for the ever elusive (and non-existent) day when I will walk in a book store and find my novel on the shelf. I call it my not-so-Great American Novel. It fits it well. It is a story that I have hacked, re-hacked and trashed many times over the past eight years. Actually, it's more like three or four stories, torn apart and then put back together into a veritable patchwork quilt of a book.
No news yet from the doctors. Thanks to all of you who've been thinking of and praying for me lately. It seems we've hit more dead ends. This past month has been better than the last few. Unfortunately, as I do have my good and bad weeks, this is not an indication of improved health, but merely a respite from whatever is going on. I realize some of my previous entries have had a rather angst-ridden tone. I would apologize except for the fact that at that time it was perhaps my only way of being truly honest. I was -still am?- terrified and as cheesy and hackneyed as poetic angst is, it provided an expression and a release that was needed at the time. I will try to keep you all updated and provide you with news when I have some.
Hopefully we will get this figured out --and soon. I don't know how well I can handle continuing on in this manner when I have no control over my health, mental and physical. It is very odd. I don't know that I've ever tried to put into words --at least, written words-- what happens to me. It's more unnerving than anything I've ever experienced before. It's a feeling of absolutely no control. Like a panic attack and a coronary with a side of insanity. ;o) My heart races, my head spins and aches, my temperature spikes, I get nauseous, my arms go numb, and -scariest of all- I can't think. There have been so many times in the past few months when Mom just holds me, trying to comfort me because I simply can't think. It terrifies me that I simply can't think straight when I get like that. I feel like a complete fool, the village idiot --in so much pain that I can't even express myself in words. It's like I lose all mental capacity when these attacks come on. I know I'm not insane and I know it's not psychological, but still there are days that I wonder... :o/
Not much else to update on. Been playing a bit of music now and then. Been listening to it more. Current favorites that are in the rotation in my car: Paquito D'Rivera (Latin Jazz), Dave Brubeck Quartet (Classic? Jazz), Once (Movie Soundtrack), Eric Clapton (I hope I don't have to define this one for you!), Kaki King (que maravillosa!), John Mayer Trio (much better than John Mayer's solo stuff), Bhangra (various artists), Judy Wexler (Vocal Jazz) and Josh Turner (Okay, yes, I'm a sucker for a good bass, even if it is country).
Saw the season finale of Bones tonight. Wow. Not 'wow' as in it was incredible, but 'wow' as in unexpected. To be honest, the writing wasn't that good and the plot was a little... unpolished. I just never expected that. Heather, a friend and fellow Bones fan, dropped a hint about what happened in the finale and I had it figured out before we watched it tonight online. I wish I had been wrong. I understand why it happened, but that character was in my top three favorites. Argh.
I hope you all are well and I apologize for my lack of contact. I would say it will not happen again, but knowing me and my scatter-brained manner, I would be lying.