Romie Sounds Pretentious for a While

The stones have been falling out of all my jewelry. They're not expensive, of course - I call them "stones," but they're more typically cut glass. Occasionally something semi-precious: a sesame-seed turquoise. An onyx the size of a contracted pupil. I don't know when the loss happens; I just look down, and another one's gone. Once I found the green glitter of an almost microscopic rhinestone winking against my skirt instead of its preferred place at my wrist. I wasn't sure what to do with it, so I put it in my jewelry box. It is, after all, a jewel of a sort.

I still wear the rings and bracelets, mind you. It would feel strange not to. Still, the weight on my hands is slightly off. I believe it is affecting my handwriting, but this is likely all in my head. Especially since the missing stones are all on my left hand. (I favor my right hand for writing because it doesn't smudge the ink.)

I've been painting recently, which is odd. I have the temperament, skills, and training of a visual artist, but I tend to avoid it for reasons which will become obvious. Nevertheless, some gallery owners have expressed agressive interest in my work, sight unseen. Unseen because it didn't exist until yesterday. (Note: I never claimed to be a painter. People just sort of . . . assume. Because of the way I approach other people's paintings. If you're curious, I am actually good, although not brilliant . . . but the point here is that people have no way of knowing that, none, and yet claim they do. Even valancy hasn't seen any of my paintings (as opposed to illustrations which use paint as a medium).)

My paintings are abstract and psychological. If you've read Beggars in Spain, and you remember the descriptions of Drew Arlen's "lucid dreaming," you have some idea of what I'm talking about. The paintings are kind of like Rorschachs in that what you see in them is somewhat interpretive, and there is often a feeling of motion in what is inherently a static image. Effectively, they're me pulling on undefined images from my subconscious in an attempt to generate a similar emotional or psychological state in the viewer. Or to remind them of the above. (Side note: Can't tell you how much I hate trying to describe paintings or music to someone who hasn't seen/heard them. Think I am failing miserably.) In other words, the paintings are of things, but they may be different things to different people. On the other hand, people should have similar emotional reactions, and/or identify a part of themselves with the painting if and only if they think about that certain thing in the same way I do. (There are also occasionally physical reactions, such as a quickening of the pulse.) I sort of try to bypass the conscious mind (including my concsious mind) and communicate on a level I don't totally understand. And, of course, that communication will absolutely not get through if someone is missing the relevant deep structure. Not visually, but intellectually, the paintings are sort of like Jackson Pollock's.

Still with me?

(Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.)

This has two basic ramifications:

1. Any one of my paintings will either be extremely important to you, or will mean nothing.

2. If you think one of my paintings is ugly, you think a non-rational part of my brain is ugly, and I will neccessarily take the rejection personally.

Considering that even I don't identify with me day to day, I leave it to you to imagine how often 1 and 2 provoke intense conflict. I also only ever like my most recent painting, (assuming I don't hate my most recent painting,) because it is the only one anywhere close to my current mental state. Moreover, I absolutely cannot tear myself away from a bad painting until I fix it - this is my brain, after all - which can take days. Miserable, miserable, miserable days.

I mean, Dear God, why do I do this to myself? Compulsion is really the only answer.

It's a pity I'm not brilliant, though.