ghormenghast

The boys are in Denver trying to get jobs in Antarctica for this fall, so they too can work hard in a cold yard, drink, enjoy a badass atmosphere (forgive me but the experience of it sort of sounds like that isolated summer camp type feeling-rampant alcoholism and hijinks (tons of sex, funny costumes, big machinery etc.) abound? I don't know...maybe I shouldn't have read this article) and get paid A LOT of money. I am celebrating my alone time by preposing to hang out with all of my incredibly beautiful and hot and creative girlfriends: Michelle, Jen and Jess, Zina Aimee and Rosey.
In other news: work makes me feel like a brain-damaged loser. I am always in the way, I always forget stuff and do things wrong and can't just be normal and MYSELF. I think my coworkers see me as a very quiet person, which is funny. (Actually, I think I have calmed down and gotten quieter since I've moved). I'm this meek little thing, hating herself in a corner. If I can't excel at a 10$/hr job that I have essentially been doing my whole adult life then I really have some problems. This is when I start freaking out about all of the drugs I did when I was a teenager and wondering if I have a little deficiency.
Then I get home and paint and read and work on my little projects : keeping a blog, learning HTML and working on my website, making mixes, writing letters, etc. and SUDDENLY I feel worthwhile again. Like, that just happened right now.
New art interest: the Wyeths (Andrew and N.C., actually). The desolation of their paintings is so intimate yet so universal. Goddamn. It is the perfect American Gothic.
Old Art Interest that continues due to my reading: Sir Edward Burne-Jones. I read this thing about the Pre-Rapphaelites and how amazing it was that they painted these scenes of ultimate sylvan perfection replete with angels and maidens and lillies and golden heavenly life just at the time when London was crammed with poor ghettos of starving people choking to death on industrial fumes and polluted water (illustrated by Dore, who was often a realist). I personally think it makes sense. Art encompasses the dreams of the populace sometimes. Though I think in this case, the rich had more of a chance to dream of Holy Natural Perfection than the poor.
Anyhow, enough of this art stuff. I'm going to a poetry reading.