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gracedpalmerI think if younger Grace asked me for art advice, I'd have to say: Never take a long break from art or writing. Your taste will advance while your skill doesn't, and you'll hate all you do thereafter.
Or, in other words - guh, why can Thog no paint? My fingers are stupid and won't obey me. At least this year I am managing to swat clumsily at it. Last year, I wasn't arting or doing fiction hardly at all. The only way out is through, but damnit...
The twitchiness is setting in, though. Trouble sleeping, and the news is prone to send me into fits of miserable frustration or sadness. It would be nice if I got more warning on this, because then I could just avoid it entirely. But I can manage most of a day of information about, say, Occupy Wall Street or upcoming legislation. Then I hit some stupid comment or essay and things get spiraltastic. The world feels like a very futile place to this hippy-kid. I think I may have exhausted my optimism for change a couple of decades ago.
Still, today was beautiful, and I managed to go for a walk by the lake with delightful humans and have a real live nap, with hormonal aids. Am well ahead on this month's reduced quota. Might even make proper quota. In theory, there is a Cintiq winging its way toward me. If I can figure out how to rearrange my sleep schedule again, I might be able to go work out with my girlfriend in the middle of the night come December or so. Just gotta figure out how not to need sleep.
That one might need more work.
Working my way through the old Doctor Who reconstructions, from the episodes that got wiped during the 1970s. Enjoying Power of the Daleks thoroughly, though the visuals (choppy video and stills) are bad enough that it's better to treat it as a radio play. Feeling ambivalent enough about the new series, on the other hand, that I am still not caught up. Moffat - why was your first season so crap to women?
Anyhow, back to smearing pixels badly. I've got a cyborg mp3 player who won't paint herself.
Or, in other words - guh, why can Thog no paint? My fingers are stupid and won't obey me. At least this year I am managing to swat clumsily at it. Last year, I wasn't arting or doing fiction hardly at all. The only way out is through, but damnit...
The twitchiness is setting in, though. Trouble sleeping, and the news is prone to send me into fits of miserable frustration or sadness. It would be nice if I got more warning on this, because then I could just avoid it entirely. But I can manage most of a day of information about, say, Occupy Wall Street or upcoming legislation. Then I hit some stupid comment or essay and things get spiraltastic. The world feels like a very futile place to this hippy-kid. I think I may have exhausted my optimism for change a couple of decades ago.
Still, today was beautiful, and I managed to go for a walk by the lake with delightful humans and have a real live nap, with hormonal aids. Am well ahead on this month's reduced quota. Might even make proper quota. In theory, there is a Cintiq winging its way toward me. If I can figure out how to rearrange my sleep schedule again, I might be able to go work out with my girlfriend in the middle of the night come December or so. Just gotta figure out how not to need sleep.
That one might need more work.
Working my way through the old Doctor Who reconstructions, from the episodes that got wiped during the 1970s. Enjoying Power of the Daleks thoroughly, though the visuals (choppy video and stills) are bad enough that it's better to treat it as a radio play. Feeling ambivalent enough about the new series, on the other hand, that I am still not caught up. Moffat - why was your first season so crap to women?
Anyhow, back to smearing pixels badly. I've got a cyborg mp3 player who won't paint herself.
