Really?
A writer and an artist?
Is that what you want to label yourself as?
Crazy, starving artist?
Depressed alcoholic writer?
Is that what you are?
Do you want to be all of that?
Yes, that’s why I have this blog. That’s why I write a little
bit, I make art occasionally, do neither professionally.
I do
nothing professionally. Should my tag line be nothing?
Span Streatfeild; Nothing.
That somehow seems like a lot of pressure in itself doesn't
it? Nothing, every time I do anything or think about becoming someone, I would
no longer be nothing, unless i failed, in which case it would read
Span Streatfeild; Failure.
Now that’s pessimistic, no matter how you look at it... and it presumes that I will always be a failure, and I
don't want to be one forever, I want someday to perhaps make something of
myself? ... Span Streatfeild; Dreamer? But a literal dreamer isn't a good
thing for me either, my dreams are far from what I want my reality to
be, in no certain reality or dreamland do I ever want my dreams to become a
reality.
That would be horrific.
Span Streatfeild; That's not even my real name, maybe that could
be my catch phrase, why would I need a tag line anyway? Because I think
it is nice promotional material, what do I want to promote? My writing?
My art?
Really?
Maybe just my whims, my creative whims are what lead me to think I
should have a blog, that I might be able
to create something other people would like, that other people could relate to
and judge and read and display and keep in their homes. Not that I set
unreasonable goals, after all surely. I can do anything.
I believe I can do
anything, all I need is inspiration and wind beneath my wings.
I am not afraid of flying, ok that’s bullshit, heights scare me. But
then everything scares me. I am afraid of judgment, I am afraid of creativity.
I am scared of never reaching my goals but I am terrified of
reaching them.
I am a contradiction. I crave those simultaneous feelings of
wanting to do whatever I want, and not knowing whatever the hell it is that I
want anyway.
I don't even know what I don't want.
I don't make much sense.
Span Streatfeild, quixotically desirous.
For everything I think about seems to lead to an idealistic want. Not
necessarily a want of the ideal, but the ideal of wanting. Maybe all I am
is a “wanter” will I always be found
wanting?
Can I be a writer? Should I put myself through that? Am I going to
do it anyway?
Can I be an artist, Do I need to be judged on my works?
It’s sort of a worthless curiosity for what I could be, what
I could do, if I just focused enough energy into the one thing, if
I could just align my wanton thoughts into something more
meaningful than destructive wanting.
Do I desire the unreachable…unrealistic want? It would seem
all my patterns lead back to determinedness for frivolous irrationality, for
the possibilities, for the: I don't know. I could.... if only I would.
I found myself writing my a diary the other day, and I thought
what on earth am I doing that for, why don't I just put it in my blog, rather
than knob about trying to come up with ideas about what is good enough for a
blog entry and then panicking and publishing any random thoughts because I
hadn't updated in forever.
Span Streatfeild. No tag line needed?
