Rye, East Sussex, England, 1930s
He made me a blanket fort.
Last year, when I was going reckless with sadness and panic, wondering constantly as to what I am doing, what I am suppose to do, what I want and the sheer conviction that I could never achieve what I want to achieve, he made me a blanket fort.
He set it out at the foot of the bed, so I could lean my back against it. He put a small foam mattress on the floor and covered it with a soft duvet. He made it just high enough to sit in it and made sure all chairs, all wood, everything that wasn’t soft and blankets and pillows, was covered.
He put a lamp there, and my computer, and a fan for when it got too hot. And then, he let me in, and pulled down the covers behind me, so that it was only me there, safe, in my own cocoon.
I stayed in there for more than a week. Only coming out to go to the bathroom, or for food. I even slept there, and he never minded me not being with him in bed. I laid there watching all the episodes of Jeeves & Wooster, which proved almost as big a comfort as the fort itself, and movies and silly youtube videos. Sometimes he would crawl in with me, and hold me in his arms while we watched episodes of QI.
He never said anything. Never told me I should stop. Never told me to get over it, to get out of there already. So one day, I got out, looked around, and pulled down the fort myself, carefully folding all of the blankets, putting away the mattress and the chairs, putting back the computer where it belonged on the desk, sat there, and watched another movie.
And that was that.
He made me a blanket fort, so I wouldn’t feel so lost, so I could feel safe, until I was able to stand on my own again.
1. I haven’t cut my hair in a bit more than 4 years (except for the ends when they were too broken, and a fringe last year)
2. I’ve had Lana Del Rey’s song Video Games stuck in my head for a week now.
3. I have a brother who’s seven years and a half younger than me. I’m the one who came up with his name when my parents couldn’t decide.
4. I love school and learning, but hate writing essays. Otherwise I would probably have gone in academia.
5. I skipped art school because I hate competition and I didn’t want to put a portfolio together.
6. If I had any musical talent I would write my own songs and sing for a living.
7. I am obsessed with witches.
8. I can talk and listen to a lot of talk about sex and sexuality. It is very hard to make me embarrassed/flustered on these subjects.
9. I could probably only eat fresh fruits, sushi and cheese for the rest of my life and be happy — though it would get boring.
10. I have coeliac disease, and after more than 5 years, I am still bitter about it.
I don’t. I always think that most things I write are very scattered. They feel scattered to me anyway, since my mind is pretty much a constant whirlwind of thoughts and emotions and words and ideas.
I find it very hard to put them in any kind of order, which is mostly why I’ve always hated writing essays and probably the only reason why I’ve never gone into academia.
I just…um, I don’t know, actually. It’s like grabbing a few words or sentences or feelings out of midair as they fly by and play around with them until I can come up with something decent, like letter magnets on a fridge or scrabble titles.
It has a lot to do with randomness and chance. Or at least it feels that way to me most of the time.
When it comes to stories I usually spend days, weeks, months thinking about them before even sitting down and trying to write. It’s really bad. I’m still working on that, on increasing my productivity. I hope that the more I do it, the easier it will get.
Okay, first, let’s get one thing clear: there are no rules to be an adult, there’s no manual. You just continue to be yourself and grow and learn and make mistakes and fall down and get up again and somehow you figure things out.
Second, I understand. Look, I STARTED really knowing myself and understand myself around something like 21? Maybe. And then only really started becoming more myself around 23-24. But I’m 28 now and I’ve JUST figured out what I want. And I still have no clue how to go about it. It’s hard. Sometimes, you need time. Sometimes, you need more time than other people. Sometimes, you feel like you need too much time, and people won’t get you and they will tell you to just hurry up already, to figure yourself out, good god why are you being so difficult?
So, you can give in to them, and your own twisted ideas of what you SHOULD be and what you SHOULD do, and be miserable, or you can maybe try to just be yourself as best you can, even if you don’t know exactly what that means, and see where that takes you.
I don’t know what else to say, I’m not really good at this, because I actually don’t really know how to go about these things either. But to be honest, I don’t think most people do. x
September 5, 1774: Caspar David Friedrich is born.
Here is a man who has discovered the tragedy of landscape.
“Washington. D.C. One of six National Photo glass negatives from 1921 labeled ‘Krazy Kat,’ showing a group of college-age kids painting and smoking in the yard of what seems to be a club or restaurant. Which has a treehouse.”
I do the same, and I wholeheartedly agree with you.
also: THANK YOU.
(you’re seriously awesome, did you know? xx)
I don’t.
I don’t protect them beyond putting a link-through on the images (I’ve seen some people putting their names on the images as well, so you could do that). But I mean, you can’t put a link-through on text posts so…
The source will generally stay there, unless someone does a repost.
The thing is, if somebody wants to claim it as their own, they will. If they want to copy, they will. It will happen.
So I don’t worry too much about it to be honest, and deal with it if I come across it.
In the end, the sharing part is more important to me than the protecting and keeping safe part. And I like it that way.
Graphite and charcoal on canvas.
It’s an interesting thought I think.
I don’t know. I think for people who create anything in general, there’s always a part of you that knows there’s room for improvement. That it could be better if you practice more, work at it longer, harder, etc.
On the other hand, I think it’s fine, even essential, to have some kind of satisfaction in your work. Something that makes you feel a bit proud, even if you wished it was better. Otherwise, what’s the point? Why keep on doing something that makes you feel miserable?
I think it’s okay sometimes to say, this is not perfect, but it’s the best I can do right now, and it’s not too bad, and I’m actually happy with this, in this moment.
I think it’s okay to accept your own talent. To think, hey I’m actually not too bad at this. But not too much at it keeps you from improving :D
ps. I hate using the word ‘artist’ to describe myself, because I don’t feel like one.
