Back in Peru, Spence and Bone commented how we needed to find a way to bottle my resilient, stubborn drive and use it for the greater good of humanity (this came up after our hike which, again, I will eventually elaborate on. However, to summarize, I shocked everyone because I fucking murdered the trek, at times out-pacing the guides... because I'm a fucking beast... with long legs and a seemingly never-ending supply of ATP... and all because people infuriated me, that shit giving me the drive I needed to go forth and beat everyone... all of this solely because everyone underestimated me, which GREATLY pissed me off. "You're telling me you can do all this shit, go from 0 to 100 ONLY because people pissed you off? We need to bottle this shit, AnoMALIE, and use it for the greater good of humanity," to quote my companions).
Vegas seems to mute this quality of mine, this strange ability to go above and beyond expectation to rock the shit out of something.
I am so lackadaisical, and timid in my natural state here in Vegas, that even those closest to me become skeptical of my abilities. In turn, though I KNOW I can do some pretty cool shit, I begin to believe other people's skepticism... much to MY OWN--and ONLY my own--detriment.
However, the moment I go to Hometown, I'm suddenly rushed by so much ambition and motivation. I become a busy-bee... a busy, artistic bee.
I will read two or three books in a span of five days (here in Vegas, you'll probably catch me reading a three-page internet article once a month... at most), which this time around included a 19th century novel, a new release "young adult" novel, and a Spanish (Argentinian) compilation of 21 short stories (TWENTY-ONE SHORT STORIES. IN ARGENTINIAN colloquialism. The goddamn book was SO fucking enthralling, that I didn't quit half-way through the first story, but instead burned through the book in one day. Stories of love, horror, or death... goddamn magical. I had forgotten how much I fucking adore short stories, in whichever language they may be).
I will doodle sketches every morning. This ten day vacation saw me finish two sketches which had been left unfinished for three years... that's pretty fucking miraculous.
I will write. In a span of five days (which was the total of legitimately "free" days), I summed up 18 pages-worth of what I call "skeletons"... aka short story outlines... which... is kind of exciting.
Hometown inspires me, when I'm not even looking to be inspired... I just go to unwind from the pent up aggression and anxiety I acquire here in the States, and come out of it with all sorts of creative trinkets, so to speak. While I do suffer from sadness out there... and I do cry nearly every day at least once... I cannot control my creative impulses. The tears are usually not provoked, they just randomly occur... even when people have been nothing but kind to me... or even when I've had a guy or two compliment me... I STILL find myself quietly crying as I sit in the living room of my house... or drinking my sleepy-time tea before bed (the walls of my Mexican home are painted pastel pink, pastel peach, and electric yellow... AND STILL, I'll cry because the fucking colors will elicit a childhood memory-- happy OR sad). I'll cry, then go off and do some shit like burn through a book, doodle, or scribble some words.
There's hardly any interference from the outside world, since any bit of rain causes the television signal to go out... and there is no wireless signal for phones... so I am left to my own devices when it comes to entertainment or even human interaction. Wanna talk to someone? Go outside and physically look for someone. Want to hear some news? Drive half an hour to the nearest "city" and visit an internet cafe.
So... I have all of this potential... and I have zero ability to harness it and manipulate to my liking... no clue how to control it. Just like my creepy ability to sense when someone close to me is going to die (or have one of their loved ones die), but no knowledge as to how to pinpoint WHO is going to die, I can go off and be a prolific "artist" but not whenever I want to... and there's always that strange side effect of going about, hiding in dark corners, crying my eyes out.
This shit feels like donating blood... where the life is literally drained out of you for the greater good, but you spend a while fainting all over the place as your body tries to recuperate.
This is all disjointed, isn't it? Like, what's my fucking point?
Basically, I'm hemorrhaging creativity and there's so much shit going on, I don't know where to point the gushing lifeforce before I'm drained and back to my catatonic, boring phase that lasts godknowshowlong.
Vegas seems to mute this quality of mine, this strange ability to go above and beyond expectation to rock the shit out of something.
I am so lackadaisical, and timid in my natural state here in Vegas, that even those closest to me become skeptical of my abilities. In turn, though I KNOW I can do some pretty cool shit, I begin to believe other people's skepticism... much to MY OWN--and ONLY my own--detriment.
However, the moment I go to Hometown, I'm suddenly rushed by so much ambition and motivation. I become a busy-bee... a busy, artistic bee.
I will read two or three books in a span of five days (here in Vegas, you'll probably catch me reading a three-page internet article once a month... at most), which this time around included a 19th century novel, a new release "young adult" novel, and a Spanish (Argentinian) compilation of 21 short stories (TWENTY-ONE SHORT STORIES. IN ARGENTINIAN colloquialism. The goddamn book was SO fucking enthralling, that I didn't quit half-way through the first story, but instead burned through the book in one day. Stories of love, horror, or death... goddamn magical. I had forgotten how much I fucking adore short stories, in whichever language they may be).
I will doodle sketches every morning. This ten day vacation saw me finish two sketches which had been left unfinished for three years... that's pretty fucking miraculous.
I will write. In a span of five days (which was the total of legitimately "free" days), I summed up 18 pages-worth of what I call "skeletons"... aka short story outlines... which... is kind of exciting.
Hometown inspires me, when I'm not even looking to be inspired... I just go to unwind from the pent up aggression and anxiety I acquire here in the States, and come out of it with all sorts of creative trinkets, so to speak. While I do suffer from sadness out there... and I do cry nearly every day at least once... I cannot control my creative impulses. The tears are usually not provoked, they just randomly occur... even when people have been nothing but kind to me... or even when I've had a guy or two compliment me... I STILL find myself quietly crying as I sit in the living room of my house... or drinking my sleepy-time tea before bed (the walls of my Mexican home are painted pastel pink, pastel peach, and electric yellow... AND STILL, I'll cry because the fucking colors will elicit a childhood memory-- happy OR sad). I'll cry, then go off and do some shit like burn through a book, doodle, or scribble some words.
There's hardly any interference from the outside world, since any bit of rain causes the television signal to go out... and there is no wireless signal for phones... so I am left to my own devices when it comes to entertainment or even human interaction. Wanna talk to someone? Go outside and physically look for someone. Want to hear some news? Drive half an hour to the nearest "city" and visit an internet cafe.
So... I have all of this potential... and I have zero ability to harness it and manipulate to my liking... no clue how to control it. Just like my creepy ability to sense when someone close to me is going to die (or have one of their loved ones die), but no knowledge as to how to pinpoint WHO is going to die, I can go off and be a prolific "artist" but not whenever I want to... and there's always that strange side effect of going about, hiding in dark corners, crying my eyes out.
This shit feels like donating blood... where the life is literally drained out of you for the greater good, but you spend a while fainting all over the place as your body tries to recuperate.
This is all disjointed, isn't it? Like, what's my fucking point?
Basically, I'm hemorrhaging creativity and there's so much shit going on, I don't know where to point the gushing lifeforce before I'm drained and back to my catatonic, boring phase that lasts godknowshowlong.
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