chantico: (Fed Up)
I do. Not. Want to work. No. NO. I hate it, NO.

Uggggghhhh there is one of *those* projects blocking me from getting anything else done. This is the dude who wants 25 realistic illustrations in incredible detail, but insists that I must follow his stick-figure layouts-- which are in landscape format. For 6x9 illustrations. He had seven rounds of revisions on one picture because I wasn't drawing a stream of vomit correctly. He makes things up to change four revisions in. He can't communicate at all and gets really angry when you don't understand what he means.

BLEH.

I think we would have dropped him at this point but he's a VIP (i.e paid lots of money) so there is no escape.

I will suck it up and get it done because I am a professional but masjdbnkhasbdjkb. WORDS DO NOT SUFFICE.

Plus my back is doing worse today. It is a cranky day.
chantico: (Infuriated)
Let's talk daddy issues. Or impending family drama. Or me worrying too much, which is possible.

So. My father. We have a complicated relationship, further complicated by the fact that I don't think he knows it's that complicated, because I don't talk to him about how much I want to strangle him some(most) of the time. Y'all know that if I trust someone, I don't have any issue telling them that our relationship is in danger-- and if I don't trust someone, I already consider that relationship in perpetual danger and clam up. I have a good long list of people I trust these days! Even my mom, which took some time. Trust and I have come to an accord, wherein a I don't afford it to folk as readily as some might, but it doesn't live in a lightless box, never to be handed out at all.

But . . . not my dad. He has this little problem with conditional love and threatening to take it away if you don't prescribe to his agenda, you see. Not fertile ground for trust seedlings. Largely, I've worked through all that stuff, and I'm at a good place where I can deal with that, and I am good at maintaining the relationship we have and it's occasional benefits without letting it fuck up the rest of my life or my relations with other people. Compartmentalizing with the best of them. He has no idea I feel this way because, well, I don't trust him enough to hand over a wrapped package of Muh Feels. Not particularly keen on giving emotional gifts to folks if there's the dimmest possibility of them putting said gift into the shredder. This system works! I vent to other people when I want to shake him, I visit occasionally, we spend holidays together and I follow him on facebook. Fine and dandy.

Until something goes wrong, of course.

Dad's nose for business is one of the worst I have ever seen. This is one of those "I'll never tell him" things because he is convinced that he's knows how people tick and if they just acted the way they were supposed to he'd be fine. Note the issue, there: his business ventures fail, not because you moved your store 25 minutes out of Bloomington and expected people to still come, but because people weren't loyal enough. His festivals fail not because he is trying to throw them in rural Indiana, without backing from local businesses, courting a population that is infamously flighty-- but because people aren't supportive enough. It isn't his fault when, two years after a series of these failed festivals, he tries *again* (with no changes) expecting things to be different, and they flop. Other people aren't (insert thing to blame here). HE is doing all he can.

It also isn't his fault that his property isn't worth very much any more, after he let it grow over, built his own wizard shack without a power or water or septic hookup, and based his financial decisions around the assumption that this state of affairs was worth as much as a regular house (that's the tyranny of the local zoning and assessment offices). Nor is it his fault that his music career hasn't taken off (the industry is terrible, no one if paying for things anymore, too many kids are trying to be musicians, my music is too deep for the masses [SERIOUSLY]).

And he can't leverage his knowledge into a business helping install solar or waste water systems because of X, Y, Z, and he won't try art, and he can't sell things at the farmer's market, and . . . you so get the point.

Basically he is 30,000 dollars in the hole and is going to lose the land if he can't get it by next year.

Now. Whose fault is this? Let's have a quiz.
A. Yours, for deciding when you were 18 you were never going to get a job for someone else and only run your own business.
B. Yours, for trying the same failed financial venture over and over.
C. Yours, for refusing to learn business techniques that might help because you don't want to sell out or you think you know enough.
D. Yours, for spending a self confessed 15,000 dollars in music equipment because you were bored/lonely/going to become a famous musician.
E. Yours, for not doing the research to understand land values and the impact of your lifestyle choices on property worth.
F. Yours for choosing ALL OF YOUR CHOICESZ SKREEEEECHCHCHSAUKHDFKJSBF.
G. All of the above.
H. A 6000 dollar student loan you co-signed for your daughter, your only contribution to her college education (which she has paid continuously but isn't finished paying off yet).
I. Everyone else, for not being supportive enough.

Choose two if needed.

****

We are only at the "Hey, can you take out a loan to cover this loan" stage. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe I do not have enough faith in him. But I would put a significant amount of money down on the certainty that, if he loses this property, H and G are going to be the answers. And I don't know what to do.

I'm still scared of him, of course. I have done really well at working through this idea that, if I'm emotionally honest with people, they will withdraw their love. The stumper is: he *will* withdraw it. It's not a fear, it's a guarantee-- he's threatened it, *he's done it*. Let's not forget, I have two other sisters out there whom he left. They've expressed anger at him over this, and his response is to quite literally tell them to fuck off and stop talking to them.

So if it comes to this, what do I do? Tell him he's being an asshole for blaming me for his financial woes and sink our relationship, or stay quiet, roll my eyes, and let him flail over there? Which do I want? Being honest for once is reeeaaal tempting, but in the way a big red button is tempting. Very, mm, arsonist-cathartic.

Don't know. For now, I will wait and see what happens. I suggested he try a Kickstarter to work up the funds, but of course it won't work and he isn't going to try, so.

I don't know.

Whine hat

Jul. 10th, 2012 03:10 pm
chantico: (Stupid)
Yesterday was my two year wedding anniversary. I celebrated by bursting into tears.

Not for the reasons one might suspect, thankfully, but they were not happy tears. I forgot, you see, and came home to a hubby who had gifts and kisses, and I had nothing at all because my brain will. Not. retain information.

I am so very sick and tired of never remembering anything at all. Trying to hold on to anything at all feels like . . . like I'm staring at a bunch of movies randomly spliced together and sped up ten times, or someone is flipping past slides before I can get a good look at the image. I'm *sick* of it, and I don't know why it's there or what i can do. Is it chemical, behavioral, a focus problem of my own creation, a symptom of internet addiction, a sign of ADD? Who knows.

Just, ugh.

More stress, more forgetting. I can't breath I'm so underwater right now-- backed up on my bills, in the horrid last stage of moving where everything is packed up but you're not in your new place yet, so you just . . . wait. Behind on commissions, stress eating, stuck inside last week or risked burning to death in the heat wave. Jason's last class, Jason trying to find a job, house, I don't know. There's more, but-- ha ha-- I can't remember.

It's that awful cycle where I *must* relax, because I've been going and going since my vacation in April, but I have too much to do to relax for long. I'll take a night, spend it reading, feel good, and then the shear weight of everything undoes that defrag time in moments.

One foot in front of another, right?
chantico: (Anxious)
I had my first piece of art in a real show today.

It wasn't that big a deal-- the show was huge, but it was a group thing, and I contributed a singular print to a show with about a hundred other pieces. Nothing particularly important or notable. I, of course, was a nervous wreck. Would the piece even get hung? Did it suck? Did I mount it well enough? Did it suck? Will anyone show at the show? Did it suck?

You get the reoccurring theme here.

I have been reading lots of art and illustration blogs as of late and I also picked up my copy of Spectrum 17, chock full of just AMAZING work. I wish I could say that these things were for inspiration and instruction, but . . . often they leave me the so anxious I can't draw for the next few hours, at least. I think "I'll never, ever be that good, or maybe you could have been once, but you blew it." ArtOrder is a blog that hosts competitions and reviews by art directors. One of the recent posts talks about the use of Pick-Up art in books (art that has been used before and then is recycled). Sometimes, it was explained, art directors have to reuse a piece because the artist they have commissioned has turned in something that is just unnacceptable. And even *typing* that, my somach drops, I feel nauseaous, and there is a thunderclap of recognition: Oh god, that's me, that's me.

I have never competed in the ArtOrder championships. I am too afraid to. I didn't tell most people about the art show until tonight becasue I was so worried my print would not be up to par and they'd, like, throw it in the dumpster or something ridiculous.

I am scared that if I fuck up ONCE, do something less than perfect ONCE, I will never work in this town again, or something. This fear is also why I keep my mouth firmly shut most of the time. Reputations linger, it's the internet, nothing ever goes away. It's all taint, and I'm not that good -- why bother giving someone another shot when there's so many other lovely people out there to work with?

I *know* this is inaccurate. I have fucked up before! I have had pieces rejected, for good reason! It has been okay!

But the sickness doesn't seem to fade. And I have a mandatory break day after I finish a painting, because I inevitably work myself into a lather freaking out about how bad it is post completion.

Does *any* other creative type on my Flist have this problem? And how do you guys deal with it? Because it is seriously getting in the way of pursuing this dream: for the first time really ever, I find myself wondering if I have wasted the last ten years of my life.
chantico: (Wretched)
Now *that* was a mierable fucking day. A complete wash from bleary start to the moment I got home. Thank All That Is for darling boyfriends who come home on their lunch break when you call them crying, even if it's only for a few minutes, make you dinner and buy you pretty flowers. I really thought, up until this time, that this winter wasn't affecting me so badly. I'm dealing with the cold pretty well, and I haven't felt like the usual SAD self I can be. But, man, today . . .

I think the issue is that it's exacerbating every other problem I'm having right now. This is a time crunch week in school with two Oral Exams (one now, but I bombed the first so bad I just don't want to think about it at all) and various other school related projects, so I'm stressed, and Exciting Opportunities are moving forward, which adds more stress (but a fun kind, at least) and I have two family birthdays and Howard's. My immediate schedule is rather head crushing. Then there's other stuff, with other things, that are and have been poking me in the head. I'm not quite ready to talk about them, but they are the And Yet portion a couple posts back, and I think the SAD stuff is rubbing them a little raw.

Crying jags aside . . . I saw STOMP last night, and it was amazing and good and made me wish heartily that I was better at Rock band so I could jam out on the drums.
chantico: (Painting)
I. I have been *Doing Things*. Many of them, actually. Where on earth do I start?

First, I should say OMHIGOD CONGRATS to [livejournal.com profile] swantower and [livejournal.com profile] kniedzw for their wedding. I saw the pictures, or at least some pictures, and they all look exceptionally lovely and romantic and wonderful. It sounds like you all had a marvelous time; I'm very very sad I couldn't be there. I'm not going to write to much more on the subject, because I already walked into Italian class all teary after lookign at the pictures and if I start wibbling now I will never get my errands done.

Classes are not intense, but there are a lot of them. Most unpleasantly, they are on an American schedule, which flabbergasts me and makes it very difficult to get used to an Italian schedule (i.e. everything being closed whenever we have a break for food/errands or all fun stuff that goes late happening the day before we have early classes). I love all of my teachers, however. The art teacher, Raffaela, is AMAZING. Mostly because she's *harsh*. Not mean, just very, very unforgiving. If you're doing it wrong, she'll lay it on you like a cat macro, and if you're doing it right she'll be pleased and point out everything that's still wrong about it. And we are not, NOT allowed to call ourselves artists. Sellable, maybe. Not artists.

Whether I agree or not, I have improved leaps and bounds under her tutelage, happy to let someone else criticize my work instead of constantly obsessing about it on my own. It makes me yearn for some kind of artists circle in Bloomington who can look at what I do and tell me. "This is fucked up. Here's how you fix it." And likewise I can do the same.

My italian is also improving, though usually only in specific phrases, like "Where is ____?" "What is this bizarre thing on the menu?" and "No, I do not want to 'make friendly' with you!" Also, my bargaining skills are rapidly becoming leet. I bought my first big present to myself (a sparkly of great magnitude) and I brought it down from 100 euro to 50.

In life, I have been CLEANING UP after myself, doing the dishes, making my bed and doing my laundry. This I take more than anything as successfully upkeeping The Ritual of self-evaluation/change that I began in coming over here. I am most pleased.

Also, I have been travelling. Descriptions under the cuts, as they are long. Since I am very lazy and very busy, they are cut and pasted from e-mails I have sent out earlier.

Capri, Sorrento and Pompeii )
San Gimignano and Siena )
Non Traveling Bad Parts )

As if this wasn't long enough, I have finished my first piece of painting in months: a piece that's actually very important for my spiritually, as it's the first one done out of a series of Oracle cards I am making just for me, and represents the stage I was in when I first traveled here. I am very, very proud of it.

ART! )
chantico: (Melancholy)
This week started off with an unpleasant encounter: I have met the Adversary, and he be named The Garbage Truck That Wakes You Up At Six Fucking Forty Five In The Morning. Appearently, this creature is natural to cities, but being a poor country bumpkin who is used to her peace and quiet the screaming of un-oiled metal, rattling of metal cans, and shouting of angry old men caused me a near fit.

Maybe it's the lost sleep, but I'm feeling not so good today. There's something deeply pyschologically disconcerting about existing on your own in a place where you can't communicate with *anybody*, because of language, culture, or social differences. I may be able to speak to my classmates, but all they want to talk about it getting drunk, Sex in the City or similar things. Plus it's all rainy, and an overcast sky in a city feels poisonous to me; it's already gray enough, why add more?

I had an okay weekend-- Saturday was great, as I got out to the Boboli Gardens. They're *amazingly* beautiful, and huge. I'll be visiting there a few more times to try and cover all of my ground. The most amazing sight I didn't get in pictures yet, but I'm excited to show you all-- it's an area where they made sculptures to look like cave structures that sort of looked like sculptures. I'll get some photos when I go again, but for now the pictures I have are below the cut, more in my scrapbook gallery. Sunday was drab and overcast part two, but I made myself go out and draw. I was supposed to go to Fiesole, but hiking in the rain did not sound so good. I found an big park filled with old birch trees that were losing their leaves, dark clouds, black hedges, and, best of all, a closed down carosel. It was perfect and yielded a pretty good drawing before I had to run form the rain. I also tried a mozzarella, tuna and tomato sandwich (having no idea what I was ordering). That didn't sit well, so then I went home and was sick and fatigued for the rest of the day.

I'm worried about my loan, too. Two weeks until my bill needs paying. . . I've been emailing and bugging them, and they *say* it's being processed, but, mrr.

I know I promised a post on me, but I don't think I'm up to it right now . . . my magic is strong, but as I was reminded on the border of dreaming and being awake, I need to "Remember . . . you're dead right now." It's true. I'm doing the whole Underworld thing, and that's always tough.

Walking with the Dark Lady all this semster, but this week, UNDressing of Salad, Miss Dreamweaver and good old Hobyah are standing on their heads at me, facing the fiery sword. It's gonna be a tough week.

Favorite Pictures )
chantico: (Catty)
So in case you haven't heard, LJ has gone a fucked up once again. I'm too tired to track everything down, so here's a link to a site that's compiled most of it. The two biggest problems *I* have with the whole thing?

1. LJ is making judgement calls on what constitutes artistic merit and *banning* people who don't fit that mold.

2. They ban Harry Potter fan artists but outright defend pro-anorexia journals, stating they do not promote self harm.

Yeah . . . fuck this. I'm tired of SixApart's bullshit-- I'm moving my journal. I'll keep this one to keep in contact with people and crosspost up through when my paid account expires, but then I'm moving to Greatest Journal. I already have an account there under the same screen name, so if you do decide to migrate as well, look me up. Besides . . . I get everything I get on LJ for my precious monies for free over there, and then some. 2000 icons, yo. I can finally have my whole collection up!

In other news, today was a rotten, no good, very bad day. Fucking passports. Fucking stupid people. Fucking beauracracy. I do not like being told that I will never get a passport in my life. It's out of my hands now, and in the capable paws of my caseworker.

LESSON LEARENED: Home birth? Fucks your kids like woah.

I feel bad that all of my posts are insipid, badly written and filled with about as much substance as a Ben Stiller movie, but that seems all I can muster right now. Errrrghg.

On good news, I have new shows. Now I just need to learn how to walk in them.
chantico: (Default)
I am surprised I have not ruptured internally from all of the vitriol I have been spewing and/or swallowing over the past week or so. I am currently rather temperamental. This is kind of like saying a fire is rather full of burning. If I am gnashing my teeth in your general direction, more likely than not it is nothing but thin skin on my part-- though it could be more aptly described as taut skin, because I am and have been a nervous fucking wreck and feel so stretched thin that I'm likely to snap like Paris Hilton in a jail cell. The air feels like it's thrumming with 'threat', amorphous, ever present, and completely ridiculous on my part. Italy is looming over me, and I'm addressing it more lie a six-year-old than a competent adult-- if I can't see it, it can't see me; if I pretend it's not there, it will go away. See, *reason* would say OMG ITALY FLORENCE OMG OMG YAY, but I'm am not reacting that way . . . quite to the contrary, I'm irritable, vicious, depressed and frightened, when I am not just, well, numb.

I'm not excited. At all. I am not happy, optimistic, gleeful, hopeful, looking forward to, or any other positive words or phrases you could apply to this. I am regarding the whole situation like a rather large spider that I have just found sitting in the middle of my bed. It is there, it is watching me, and it has *fangs*.

Mostly I think I'm very worried about letting myself become excited for fear of something going wrong (and something has, but I'll get to that in a minute) and if I edge my way warily towards the inevitable, I'm not going to be absolutely and completely smushed into a smear of wibbling, sobbing and despair if it falls through. This is logical to me from a removed perspective, but it is also COMPLETELY STUPID from any other. As I've said to those I've mentioned this to directly: if I am not getting excited, if I can't be happy about this, it won't *mean* anything to me.

I mentioned something has gone wrong, and it has, though not *spectacularly*, and if this is the other shoes, on first assessment it's more pink and mary-jane shaped than the combat boot I was expecting. My passport has been delayed, because they say I have not submitted proof of birth. Problem: I don't *have* traditional proof of birth. I have not birth certificate. See, when I was born, home births were not all that common in Indiana, and those born at home were never issued Birth Certificates. Only "alleged" Birth Certificates. Alleged. These documents *are* official and issued by the State, and I've gotten things like my Driver's License just fine with it, but I have baffled the passport people, apparently. They want hospital records or early school records from early infancy (???), but I don't know if the hospital *has* those records on hand after 22 years. Basically, I have to call and yell at them, until they stop being dumb.

Bah. BAH, I say.

On the plus side, this is just awesome.
chantico: (Emo)
*groans*

So I've finally finished my homework for this round (not counting what I have due for tommorrow). Next, the eight or nine watercolors I have due nect wednesday, my final to study for the week after that, a comparison of obscure Japanese movies, a Flash movie, and (to interrupt my bitching) what has to be the coolest final project EVER, wherein I have to draw four-five pictures/write a four-five page story about Tokyo of the Future.

Out of all of that, the thing I'm worried about the most (other than the watercolors, but those are fun) is the Flash movie, mostly because I do not in any way know how to use Flash, and the teacher in my T230 class knows jack shit. Seriously, nothing at all. She tried to show me how to execute a (supposedly) simple move in the program today and spent the entire THREE HOURS of class fucking up and finally admitting at the end she didn't know what she was doing. I warned her that she might just get a final project that consists of a ball bouncing around on the screen, since that is all she was capable to teaching. Not quite so rudely, of course. This is the same teacher that shows up for class an hour late most of the time and half of those times cancels the class altogether.

You know, I'm not looking forward to growing up an being an adult, but it has got to be a damn sight easier than this shit.

So, yeah. Cranky. Stressed. Depressed. Volitile.

And hungry.
chantico: (Exasperated)
One of *those* days.

Wake up at 10:50. Realize that, because you woke up way too early (couldn't get back to sleep) and went to bed way too late (couldn't sleep), you have woken up three hours late-- three hours in which you were supposed to write an important paper that was due in a class today. A class taking place at 11:15. For which the bus that you needed to be on left exactly one minute ago.

Spill water all over your class watercolor.

Spill lemonade all over yourself.

Spill rancid trash all over yourself.

Have a vacuum EXPLODE dust all over you when you try and fix it because it will. not. work.

Kill the printer at the IU library. Take an hour to fix.

Realize it is 12:40, you were supposed to be in bed forty minutes ago, and you have a class at eight AM.

Realize you still have an hour walk home. A *creepy* hour walk home.

Cry.
chantico: (Sick)
Woke up last night puking for hours. Still sick today.

Argh. Nausea knocks me on the ass. Anything else I could deal with.

*wants be dead*

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