Tar

Cake decorating is about as close to making art as I get these days. I was into photography back in high school but I think I enjoyed developing the pictures better than taking them. A precursor to lab work I guess. And there's the poetry I still occasionally write but never try and get published, in part because I'm sure it would get rejected but even more because it would be too much of a hassle. I'd either have to write stuff that wouldn't horrify my parents or somehow keep everything secret. The first is unappealing and I'm just not motivated enough to undergo all the subterfuge necessary for the second. I don't lie all that well. Except for the fun big lies I tell at parties at 1 am. Anyway, back to art, I was thinking about it because I wanted to write an entry here but I was feeling too ick inside to do it. I could write about the ick except that the ick seems to prevent that. I'm just too down to craft the pretty sentences. I'm not sure I could aptly describe how I feel even if I was having a bright sparkling day. I feel like an almost matte, black splotch with a vinyl sheen on it in places, sort of trying to engulf the canvas. A still sticky to the touch blotch that feels like cold clammy flesh. That's the piece I would create if I did do that kind of stuff. Instead I'm going to listen to loud music and read William Gibson's "Virtual Light" which, a few chapters through now, is starting to seem familiar. I think I read this or its sequel or prequel. I tend to start books without realising they're part of a series until I'm half done and wholly confused. I just got Steven Brust's "Sethra Lavode" but it turns out to be third in a trilogy so I'm going to have to hold off on that. Suckiness.