[words-thing]

I am struggling with this project. And with drawing. My heart is not in it anymore. Yes, I want to draw. No, I don't want to work for it. Today's bad metaphor: relationships. I am pretty good at setting up relationships. In my drawings. But there are aspects, pun intended, that are off. Elliptical perspective is still very difficult for me. Everything rectilinear was easy to block out, but when it came to the curvilinear forms I continued to doubt my eyes and tried to draw them larger than their actuality. So today I spent my allotted drawing time measuring, checking and double-checking, marking out. The framework for this drawing is quite accurate. But the drawing itself is not telling of the object. Which is more important? Accuracy or affect? I already know the answer. It's a balance between the two. And if I want to strike that balance I need to log the hours. This is why it is important to be in the practice. The best drawings are relaxed and effortless. But it takes a lot of work to create something apparently casual.

I am drowning in shit. I spent the bulk of the morning reorganizing the garage in order to place the saw at a distance far enough away for me to get perspective. Drawing is also a balance between distance and detail. One must be far enough away to grasp the big picture yet close enough to see the little things. Perhaps life is a balance between shit and emptiness, between possessions and freedom. When your bowels are full, evacuate. When your garage is full, yard sale.

I'm having this ongoing conversation with Alison Layton. She is in a position where she needs to make some big decisions. Everything is good for her right now, though, so she is thinking she doesn't need to do anything but ride the wave. I tried that once. It worked for awhile. But then the wave hit the shore and I was left stranded. I don't recall why I put that in writing or what it has to do with this chop saw or this drawing. But it's on my mind and it's the truth.

This is my chop saw. I bought this in Boston when I took my first freelance contracting gig. It served me well.

[words-thing]

I wanted to draw my chop saw today, but I don't have the space to get the proper distance. I'm hemmed in by shit in my garage. I have too many things I can't let go of and I am drowning. So I drew this lamp because there is already space on my work bench for it.

I bought this on Craigslist a few years ago from some guy in Los Feliz for $20. It is a weird piece of furniture. I think it looks like something out of Star Wars. It's a piece of shit. It's made of cheap plastic and doesn't hold a right angle. The weight of the lamp is too much for the arm so it droops and looks pathetic. The base is also very heavy. Like ten pounds heavy. The guy I bought it from seemed surprised that I wanted it, like he posted it on a fluke knowing deep in his heart that know one wanted this lamp. Then I came along and paid for a round of drinks.

I'm planning to move. Will I keep this lamp? I suppose I'll take it with me and leave it in the K-town house when I move out of there. I'm beginning to sell off my shitty possessions on Craigslist, but nobody is taking the bite. I need to unload my shit. I'm tired of having things. But I still need things. Freedom is an illusion. One cannot exist without things.

[words-thing]

I needed to clear a path when I opened the garage this morning. The debris of debauchery cluttered my work space. This flask was central to the mess. A lot of whiskey has passed between this container and my lips. I bought this flask 10 or so years ago on ebay. I carried this flask to MassArt parties, where the beer always sucked, so it was great to have a secret stash of stronger stuff. When I got to Los Angeles it proved invaluable on the bar scene where a single shot of whiskey costs almost half the retail price of a bottle. So I'd roll with this flask, buy one drink and continually refill my glass from my private reserve over the course of the night. It's a 4 oz. Flask. Two drinks. That was once sufficient. I now consider four ounces one drink. I've outgrown this flask. I'm a big boy now. Or a budding alcoholic.

Shane and Natalie are breaking up. We went backpacking in Yosemite a few years ago and in lieu of this flask I filled a Nalgene bottle with whiskey. I took a quart of whiskey and, with a little help from my companions, drank the entire thing over the course of the weekend. I recently bought an official Nalgene flask to take out. It holds 12 ounces of adult beverage. I took it with me to San Gorgonio last weekend and quickly dispatched it over the course of two nights. I needed, well, wanted, more and wished I had this little guy along with me, too.

I am struggling. I am struggling with drinking. I am struggling with drawing. I am struggling with living. I don't want to do anything anymore. I don't want to work on projects. I don't want to work. I don't want to see people. I just want to drink myself into oblivion.

But.

I don't want to be fucked up anymore. I don't know how not to be.

While I was backpacking I read the first three parts of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. In the introduction, the translator, R. J. Hollingdale provided some context from The Gay Science. Here are two passages that transformed my thinking as I descended from the mountain:

For believe me! – the secret of realizing the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! Send your ships out into uncharted seas! Live in conflict with your equals and with yourselves! Be robbers and ravagers as long as you cannot be rulers and owners, you men of knowledge!

And, The heaviest burden:

“What, if some day or night, a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life, as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh… must return to you—all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again—and you with it, speck of dust!’ Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god, and never have I heard anything more divine!’ If this thought were to gain possession of you, it would change you as you are, or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, “do you want this once more and innumerable times more?” would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?”

I returned home from the mountain firmly resolved to live such that I would want it again and again, time without number. How quickly does my resolve dissolve! It's in large part the drink. I just want to drink. I've lost. I am lost.

[words-thing]

Here I am drawing my recently acquired vise while contemplating letting go of my long-held vices. I do love a bad metaphor. The vise is a beautiful object. It's organic and mechanical. This drawing is so close to how I want to draw. It's also so close to how I drew when I was 7 years old and just learning. Unfortunately, I need to be drunk to go back in time. So that's the thing: learning how to get drunk on water, how to be loose without structure.

Drawing is such a strange activity. I sit down. I study an object. I render it in two dimensions with pencils. Why? Why do we do this? Why do I do this?

[words-thing]

This is my Dremel rotary-/multi-tool. This is the first time I've used it, taking it out of the box to draw. I bought it at Orchard Supply Hardware more than a year ago. That store is now closing thanks to a Lowe's that opened across the street. The neighborhood is changing. Time to leave.

Speaking of time to leave, there's no future in my day job. Everyday there is a day wasted. I interviewed for a preparator position at the Skirball yesterday. But it would be a step sideways, possibly down. Tom, who would be my immediate supervisor, made it clear that I was overqualified for the position. So, if it is offered, I may not take it. I don't want more of the same. My dream was to be an artist and a teacher, not a fucking glorified handyman. I'm looking for a rupture.

I struggled, as I always do, getting started with this drawing. I need to draw more. I couldn't get the perspective on the ellipses right. So I practiced. I nailed it when I got lost in it. When I started to really see what was in front of me. This morning I was battling a hangover and some serious negative monkey mind, churning over the pettiness at work. I'm not getting paid to think about those assholes on my weekend. I wish there was a switch in my brain. I've been using alcohol as the switch. But for too long. It's catching up with me.

Things improved with this drawing when I turned it upside down. Here's today's bad metaphor: look at things differently.

[words-thing]

I took a different approach to this drawing by very loosely building it up. It was much more fun to work on but I also made much less “progress”, as you can see in the unfinished results. I lost focus very quickly. This is perhaps due to the energy required to learn something new. I can see how I fell into my old routine as I began shading the drill. I was no longer seeing. I was merely looking.

I love this drill/driver combo. It revolutionized construction for me. Previously I only owned a drill and would find myself constantly switching back and forth between drill and driver bits. Now I'm armed with two guns.  

This object, or objects, are fitting today. JR asked me earlier this week for a drill recommendation. My relationship with him is so bizarre. He wears his resentment on his sleeve yet obviously needs me. I don't know if I created this monster of if my parents are responsible. It's hell and I don't know what to do.

Laura and I saw Vieux Farka Toure in Pasadena last night. It was the best show I've ever attended. Every one was happy. Toure, the band, the audience. It was pure positivity. I want to do that. I want to make people happy while making myself happy. The show made me realize how far off track I am. I am miserable. I spend my days working for and with awful people who seemingly set out to beat people down. I don't have the energy to fend off their attacks and keep a smile on my face. It's exhausting. Misery is exhausting. My spirit is broken. I failed. Is it too late to correct the course? Or is my life lost?

[words-thing]

I drew the sockets a few weeks ago. Now it's time to ratchet things up. I love bad metaphors. They're a great starting point to push through to something else. One must begin somewhere so why not start at the bottom? The only way out is up. Or choose to roll in shit.

The ratchet is a great metaphor for the stress in my life right now. I'm broke. I have no career prospects. No friends. My health is in decline. I'm not getting any younger. How did I come to this point in my life? I worked so hard. I try to be my best everywhere I go in everything I do. Yet, I am trapped in a shit day job where I am demeaned by supervisors who know less than I do. The few friends I have never think of me and it's impossible to schedule a get together. I don't live an extravagant life, yet I don't earn enough to pay my bills. Even my brothers dislike me. My parents think I'm a failure and asking for their help would only confirm this belief. What did I do wrong?

Death is the best thing that could happen to me. I don't know why I bother with health insurance. I'm not interested in living a long life if this is what I have to look forward to. I could use that money now. To buy Bourbon. My only option is to punch a hole in this existence. A radical rupturing tiger leap into the void. I set out to be a teacher and an artist. I am not proud of how far I deviated from my dream.

This drawing was rushed. I'm pressed for time this week. But I really want to maintain a drawing practice. I like this drawing because it's rushed and loose. One thing I don't like is the big smudge I made, though it is fitting it being a mechanics tool; as though my hands were greasy while sketching.

[words-thing]

My orbital sander. It goes round and round and wears things down. I initially typed “where's things down”. That's an interesting phrase considering I acquired this from the museum. It was legit. We got some new sanders, this one, kind of a piece of shit, was deacquisitioned.

The museum is functioning as an orbital sander. It goes round and round and wears things down, namely its employees. A week or two ago, Anna told me that Vanessa said to her, of me, “I remember when he started. So full of energy and ideas.” I almost started crying. It's true. I was. Now I am bitter and beat down. Much like this orbital sander, it still functions, it still gets the job done, but it's not in good shape.

I charged into this drawing. I did a quick gestural sketch to outline the overall shape and then started the finish lines. I like it. It's terrible. I need to get faster. I'm still too slow. What I like the most in my drawings is the immediacy. I am not good at laboring over something. Nor do I have the time. I was once good at this, but that was when I was younger and possessed the required constitution.

[words-thing]

This is the first drawing in a long while. I took a break for Maker Faire preparation and recovery. And a lot of drinking. I struggled with this drawing. I am out of practice. It was a good starting point for getting back into this project. Lots of little things to draw rather than one big object. Lots of ellipses to practice perspective. It didn't get fun until I stopped caring and let go. Once I did that, the drawing was smooth and easy. It seems I learn that lesson every time I sit down to draw. I'm also discovering that is the secret to life. Which is also something I continue to relearn. It's so hard to remember to not care.  

I'm implementing this philosophy of detachment at work. I've seen the writing on the wall. I can't take any one I work under seriously anymore. It was hard to come to the conclusion that it was time to move on, but once I did everything became fun again. I think the problem was in trying to build a career out of it. That's the worst a person can do: cling to something. It's better to continue to evolve even if that evolution propels you into the unknown.

Yesterday was the solstice, the longest day of the year. I sort of celebrated by  drinking beer and playing video games with my brothers. I bought this socket set at Orchard Supply Hardware. JR was with me at the time. I've been thinking a lot about him lately. He's a selfish little bugger. Which is fine. Whatever. But it's been bothering me a lot lately.  I think it's because I'm so unhappy at work. I make much less money than he does yet I spend more on things like socket sets that he in turn uses to work on his own things. I'm struggling with my feelings. But I think I found the solution to my problem this morning: let it go.

[words-thing]

I can't think of anything more intimate than work gloves. My hands are in these things when I do stuff. If you know a person by their hands, these gloves know me better than I know myself. I made a bad pun earlier this week after sex. My new lover and I agree that we are a perfect fit. I caught myself before I said, “Like a glove”. But then I still explained how I stopped short a terrible utterance. I wasn't quick enough to come up with a new and better response to “What were you about to say?”

I like the direction this is going. I continue to push the drawings towards chaos. I am no longer interested in tight, accurate representations.  I want my drawings to fall apart. I realized I may be reverting. This is a lot like how I drew in 2nd grade when I first started taking classes. My father would drive me to Salt Lake City every Friday to sit in a classroom with some crazy old art lady and one other kid for private lessons. I was seven. The other kid was 13 and exotic.

I distinctly recall one day, on break, on the playground, for the classes were held at a school, after hours, we were hanging, literally, on the monkey bars, having a conversation about music, which, at seven, I knew nothing about. Eric, I'm sure that's not his real name but it seems like the name of all kinder, older boys, was inquiring as to my current tastes. I offered little. What was I listening to at that age? Some bad hip-hop, yes, but that's all I can recall. He introduced the concept of acid jazz. I had heard of jazz. But acid jazz? What? Thus began my voice into experimental music. Did my father inadvertently radicalize me by taking me to these classes? Or was I destined to find myself interested and immersed in the avant-garde regardless of nurture?  

The only other thing I remember about my drawing class is fruit cake. The teacher brought fruit cake on several occasions. I tried, but could not eat it. I can't recall the last occasion, but every time I eat fruit cake my mind is immediately back in the classroom sketching a still life. I pressed hard with my pencils. I maximized their potential. I exceeded their limits. I transgressed my their materiality. I went beyond their capacities. I found myself at the pencil sharpener repeatedly. I didn't realize that what I needed was a harder pencil. But a harder pencil doesn't offer up the same deep, lush gradations. And that's what I wanted: fat, silky richness.  

[words-thing]

This drawing was an emotional roller coaster. I was elated to begin, immediately lost enthusiasm, felt despair, then found calm. It's complete and utter shit. But, I'm beginning to see the emergence, return of my style. Which is a strange thing to consider: style. Is it unavoidable? What is it the hand gives away? Handwriting says so much about a person. What of drawing? What does this say of me? I suppose that's what I'm exploring here with these essays. With my drawing style, I'm looking for that sweet spot between representation and abstraction. Or, perhaps, it's the fulcrum of fun and tedium. I want to be level. I want to get lost in the drawing no matter the subject and approach it with equanimity.

I am the king of bad metaphors.

Maybe I struggled with this drawing because I was listening to Depeche Mode's new album. I loved them as a youth, but I now think, especially after David Bowie's latest effort, that there is a time to call it quits and that one should be savvy enough to recognize it. Maybe I'm there. Maybe this is perverse and absurd, this struggle of mine to regain lost glory, glory that I am not entirely sure existed because I kept almost nothing from that time period. That's what I loved about that time period. I was an art machine. Everything I did was art. I didn't worry about Art. I kept nothing. Now I hoard and I'm immobilized by my possessions. How does one find the balance between the tools necessary to perform a task and the freedom of having nothing? Most people choose to do one thing. I am unable to make that decision. I instead amass potential life paths.

I am now seeing a very young lady, Laura. We have not yet had the age conversation but I am inferring that she is ten years younger than I. We were standing in the checkout line at the grocery store last night buying wine when she peeled off to get something more. I found myself at the checker before she returned, with the ID and credit card at the ready. The checker told me to put my license away. He could see that I was old enough, that the law states he is only required to check if the individual looks younger than 35. I am 34. This is the first time I have not been ID'ed. But he is correct. I look old. I look like hell. I don't know how Laura can't see it. I also don't know what to do about it. The damage is done. I squandered my youth. I didn't want to squander it. I was trapped in bullshit jobs, broke, friendless, struggling to make a place for myself in the world. Nothing has changed except my face. It looks old and tired. I will never get enough sleep to heal this grizzled mug.

I was talking with Laura last night about her undergrad thesis on Emily Dickinson. The crux of it is that Dickinson's poems, and perhaps all (good) poetry seeks to bring time to a stand still. After spending the weekend hiking in Anza-Borrego, I know this is what I seek in life. To bring everything to a halt: the impossible. I love being outdoors because I push myself to a point at which my brain and body are exhausted and I can finally see and feel things without filters. I can also achieve this same result with drinking. There is a moment in the night when a calm descends upon the bottle. But then I continue to look for peace toward the bottom of the vessel and all is lost. The trick is finding that sweet spot between life and death without exhaustion, chemicals, poetry, or art. To get drunk on water.

[words-thing]

I just acquired this bag. It now houses my screwdrivers so they are all in one easily accessible place in my toolbox. I'm trying to get organized. Organization is expensive, though, not to mention time consuming. Yet, more time (and money) is lost sifting through chaos and repurchasing misplaced objects. There's no winning. There's also not a lot to say about this bag. It has been in my possession less than a week. It's nothing special. It is a canvas bag with a zipper. I could make it myself. But, time is also expensive and time consuming. 

I rushed this drawing. I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge tomorrow and trying to check boxes on my to-do list. I hate missing a week of this project unless I have no choice. But, in the rushing, I made the kind of drawing that I love the most. This is the type of shitty I want my drawings to embody. Maybe not quite this shitty. But shitty, nonetheless.

[words-thing]

I struggled this morning getting focused on this drawing. I texted Alison Layton just before sitting down and she responded immediately. If you send a text and your recipient responds immediately you are culturally obligated to respond immediately because you know they know you are sitting there with the phone in your hand. Especially if it's Saturday morning. So we pinged back and forth while I attempted to render this object. I sabotaged myself with distraction, but I was also very happy to connect with her.  

I'm thinking about focus lately. It's increasingly difficult for me to sustain an activity for any duration of time. This is partly my job, which pulls me in a dozen directions all day long, but also partly an effect of our culture, which inundates us with a deluge of crap, each piece of which claiming universal importance. I suppose the two are intertwined. ((My phone just chirped and I am fighting the urge to check it. From now on, the phone stays in the house when I come out to the garage to work.) Where was I? Oh yes.) Funny that the Natural History Museum is a reflection of culture rather than nature. The museum is less a lens on the outside than a mirror reflecting the inside. Like a fun house filled with diversions, the exhibits say more about our disconnection from our environment than what the purport to teach.  

A young woman is now occupying my attention. We went out for drinks Tuesday and the topic of music came up. She is a writer and listens to opera when she works. I could never do that. Opera is too jarring. But it made me think about what I listen to when I work. Recently it's been whatever is the latest thing. But the latest thing I downloaded was David Bowie's new album and it was pure garbage. It was far too distracting for me to get lost in. When I was younger I listened to drony, rhythmic. ambient music. So the next day I loaded up my audio-player with Steve Reich, Terry Riley, Fela Kuti, John Coltrane... you get the idea. I want to get my brain back on track. Starting a relationship is a great way to get focused. It's an excellent external motivator to be one's best.

This is my chalk line. I don't know where or when I acquired it. I know I didn't pay for it. It's a shitty, plastic Stanley. My dad gave me a great aluminum chalk line when I was younger and I lost it along the way, I think at Rats Tramps. I lost a lot of great tools there. I suppose that's the balance of the universe. I thieved a lot and then my friends thieved from me.

I gave up on the initial render. A piece of advice I believe Carl Purcell gave me at Snow College was if you're stumped by a drawing (or, at that time, a painting), turn it upside down. This will reveal all of the errors. It's difficult to bypass the brain when translating between the eyes and the hand. We want, insist, on imposing what we think we see. But when a drawing is turned upside down, all of the errors are glaring. My second attempt was much more satisfying and accurate. Yet loose and shitty. I turned on Terry Riley's Rainbow In Curved Air and got lost in the drawing. In fact, I disconnected. There's the paradox. The deepest focus is in detachment.

[words-thing]

This is the first drawing in this series in which I stopped caring. I don't give a shit about this drawing anymore. I checked out somewhere along the way and when I realized I was on auto-pilot, I stopped. It's not complete. I don't care. Fuck it.

I don't know where I got this plane. It may have been a gift from David Sapir. But, I have another plane which was definitely a gift from him. There's a chance I got two in the deal. How is it possible to lose memory like this? I own this thing. I don't know if I've ever used it. The other plane, yes, I used it. This one, no, I don't think so, and it has no obvious signs of wear. This bothers me endlessly. How can I develop an attachment to an object without justifiable reason or recollection of its acquisition?

What bothers me most is that I don't give a shit. It could be because I'm tired, I'm two drinks in, and I was drawing for awhile before I started this one. Maybe it's the emotions attached to this object. This was a gift from the father of an ex-girlfriend. It means nothing to me yet I can't let it go. Just like trash. I have a hard time throwing things away. I suppose that is because I recognize the potential usefulness in every object. So I retain things whether or not they have any intrinsic meaning beyond their utilitarian functionality.

[words-thing]

Today I got into a fight with my neighbor over the parking behind our building. It was totally ridiculous. He came on strong and got in my face. I reacted horribly and escalated the situation. He's not a bad guy, just a dude lacking tact. I made things worse.

There's been a lot of bullying in the news lately, thanks to Emily Bazelon. When Hernan approached me earlier it was like high school all over again. I still haven't learned how to not be pushed around. I stood up for myself, but I should have side-stepped the argument. I also still haven't learned how to hang out with dudes. I'd love to learn both, but, I'm not getting any younger and you know what they say about old dogs. Also, I don't have any friends. So there's that. The altercation made me understand why I'm alone. I don't know how to relate to people. Not only am I an introvert, I'm an asshole. Yet, I don't understand why I can't make love work. I treat the women I'm with very well. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I treat women too well. Maybe I should take a cue from the dudes around me.

This drawing started off without confidence. I was rattled by todays events. I didn't like it. Then I let go. I let the lines waiver and wander. Once the basic outline was down and I started shading, I fell in love. I love my shitty drawings and I want them to be shittier. This one is great, but as far as my shit goes, it's not shitty enough for my standards. But, like children, it is what it is, and I love it with equanimity.

I'm accepting, perhaps realizing, my fate. I will be alone. My work is my love. My love is my work. I have no illusions of a happy future in a career or a relationship. I have my work. I am now devoted. Sorry, ladies. There was a moment when I was a catch and it's now gone. I'm no longer handsome. I'm no longer debt-free. I'm no longer fun. All I want now is a dog, a whiskey, and time in the studio.

[words-thing]

My scraper. I believe I bought this for taking paint off the front windows at Rats Tramps. I am discovering that I own more objects than space in my memory. Something else I am discovering is my propensity for bad metaphors. Fitting that I chose the scraper this morning. I am in a rush to get on to other things today so I selected an object that would be somewhat easy to draw. I am ragged. I literally scraped myself out of bed this morning, glued to my sheets with sweat and mucus. I'm getting sick. I am trying to do too much, yet I am also trying to suppress suffering through staying active and drinking too much caffeine and alcohol. I am struggling to accept my age and limitations. I want to be close to the sun. I can't get close enough. It's unsustainable. My mind melts. But there isn't enough time in the day. I need to take myself over the edge with chemicals to get beyond my limitations, to turn off the doubt, the hesitation, the voices. I know I don't need to do this, but it takes so damn long to slog through that shit the healthy way and I am not getting any younger. I look and feel like hell. I don't care anymore. I just want to be in the studio.  

I returned home from New York this week. It was inspiring and exhausting. I'm sick because I'm suppressing some emotions. I'm not allowing myself to process. I need to cry. I miss my friends. I had a great time with Alison. I experienced a moment of bliss with Karen. And I know it's gone. I have to accept that it's gone but I don't want to feel it.

I experienced a moment of peace in this drawing. I'm stressed out because I'm looking for meaning in life. But there is no purpose. I can spread myself thin looking for something beyond myself, or I can be in the moment, enjoying life as it comes to me. Drawing is fun. I need to not make it so painful.

[words-thing]

This is one of my favorite and most loved tools. I didn't capture it in the drawing, but one would immediately note the use and wear that this object has sustained. It's so simple and elegant. Also something I didn't capture in my drawing. I bought this outright at Home Depot in Boston when I was launching into my short-lived career as a contractor. In restoring Victorian-era homes, a wonderbar is indispensable. A crow bar is too crude, and God forbid you use the claws on your hammer.

I'm really rusty. I have not been consistent with this project this year. I got sidetracked by  Karen, then Phil, then my own problems. I'm exhausted. I slept 10 hours last night. Nine the night before that, and nine again two nights ago and I'm really struggling to keep my head up as I write. It was difficult drawing the curves and I did not find any joy in shading. In fact, the shading felt like homework. Maybe I'll feel better about it when the sleep clears from my eyes.

I think I'm plateauing on this project. The drawing is no longer difficult but it's also not progressing. Likewise the writing. Maybe that's a good thing, though. Maybe this is exactly where it should be. Like work: punch in, punch out, do just enough to make it through the day. I would like both my drawing and writing chops to improve but maybe this isn't the platform for that. That sort of improvement would require a greater time commitment than I can currently afford. Being exhausted, I am already stressed out about accomplishing my tasks this weekend.

There are two approaches to art-making. One is intensive, the other extensive. An intensive approach follows a course wherever it twists and turns. An extensive approach sets up a system and then proceeds to work within it. This project is the latter and I miss the former. But, the problem with me and the former is that I have a great time and never finish anything. I suppose it's in the balance. Striking. The problem is in scheduling time for intensive production. It doesn't feel productive. I box myself in with a  to-do list and it's great to see the results of steady consistency, but it can be joyless.