Roll on, Roll off… My Transformation into Creative Critic Balloons. Look!.

Dear MF’ing Diary: Exhale…

I am joyfully exhausted.

Painting the apartment up for the last four days has revealed a part of me I would not have discovered while sitting in front of my laptop:

I zone out during simple, directed, and repetitive activity.

And I mean zone-out in that “meditative and metropolitan-zen” sense.

Today I did the last room, and I will miss it, I think I’m going to look into working around such taxing fields (as long as no heavy duty exertion is required [I’m way too skinny for that]).

There’s something ironic about making assumptions about oneself…

I figured my “place” on this spinning globe was toiling away at something cerebral (and that I would find said “zen” in an intellectual space)

But no; it is rather painting where I exhale with a sense of exultation and say: aaah. How relaxing that was, how decluttering (for my a.d.d busy body thoughts), how soothing and reassuring (each spread of paint leads closer to the end and this serves as a drive/encouragement produced by the activity [as opposed to having to pump myself up])

How philosophical (the act of transforming a large space with incremental [and repetitive] action, and that very modification of a physical area changing me as I take the fruits of my labour).
And the sense of achievement maintained as long as the memory of how the place looked before remains fresh in my mind.

And how Existential! (the memory of what the place looked like will invariably wilt away; and soon enough i will acclimatise to the new (which, truth be told, became old soon as the paint dried)…
Questions arise about the concept of new, and the desire for new, and the inner critic in me is sucking on a pacifier I can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of becoming something I never thought I would just a mere five days ago.

Asperganoid (down), and OUT.

Advertisements

Happy Clappy Hands

The noise oh the noise.
I may be mentally impaired.
Pills to float on the surface of sanity.
People I knew in high school moving fluidly through life.
Perplexed at how so many autistic folk move, as NT’s, with as much fluidity.
Enter autistic space and feel like an outsider. Maybe wires crossed in existential circuitry.
He unplugs from the rest of the world and finds it easy to forget.
He drinks non-alcoholic beverages to escape sobriety.
She doesn’t understand the milieu of smiles.
She wishes they would be transparent.
It’s all electronic and cybernetic.
It cannot cope with life.
Oh well never mind.
Nouns + Verbs.
Aspergian.

Anxiety Induction

If you enjoy Sir Ernest Hemingway, apologise I sincerely, he drank and wrote and writed and drankeded.

Many a writer in the past did this; was their drinking responsible for their output?

Maybe; but I inquire deeply, what are you, if no creative gold bursts out of thyn loins no matter what ‘chemical muse’ thee shamefully ingested?

Is it possible, can one be obsessed with becoming an artist (and the romanticism it bears) to such an extent that they can be completely and utterly blind to the fact that they are in reality such a blatantly regular Sock; art could not possibly spring forth from their bosom, Let alone any orifice?

Blinding and painful naval grazing.