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August 2010

self-portrait

Words cannot describe how much I detest drawing myself. I find the scrutiny of myself clenchingly, toe-curlingly mortifying. In animation college, we used to have to draw ourselves grimacing in mirrors to catch expressions, and striking attitudes in front of mirrors and it always caused me great irk. (Animators do a lot of acting Goofy. I mean that literally, acting like Goofy, Bugs et al. You couldn't get up the corridors in animation college without falling over students acting out their scenes. One of the second year projects was the Fat Skip and there they'd be, jumping imaginary ropes, as hammily as possible, being Poo-Bear or Baloo. It is a bit of a strange profession.)
The theory being, to draw it, you've got to feel it.

I've never been able to pull that off, when applied to myself. But as the residency approaches I really have to raise my game a bit, (hence previous post) to allow me to include autobiography in my mad creative plans. Nearly all the half-baked ideas I have in my head for book ideas are all about things that happened to me, and I need to be able to represent myself somehow.

Oh man. Cringe.
Selfportrait_s
[I am amused to see that I have made myself thinner than in real life.]

As in art, so in life.
I am going through some stuff. Due date related stuff (it's not for weeks - tell that to my subconscious), mostly, also marital stuff and sundry other arising neuroses - I don't know where to start with it, it's all a dust storm, but I have to make some kind of sense of it all. Some clarity, or at least less grit in my eyes, would be very welcome. The ground feels shaky, all is weird - not all bad, oddly enough - but uncertain and I really want to be more normal, at some point.

So I am looking at local therapists names online, as encouraged by bunny. We do have some Find a therapist tools for Ireland, but these foolish people have not included IF as a specialty. I mean, really!
These people don't come with reviews, more is the pity. That would be so handy. Say a star system, like hotels? I'd like a good-ish one, nice and clean and with good views (groan). Three stars would be fine.

Even the wonderfully gossipy boards.ie doesn't allow names to be mentioned. (You have to wonder if some of these threads are real. Some take on an Onionesque quality: Dublin Ghost Hunter claims he was attacked by a spirit (?).)
Back later, less moaningly, I hope. (I've been working on Smokey, the film again. It's turning into something - not sure what - but it's a thrill.)

T

and all that mighty heart

I had visions before we went to London, that captured me as if enveloped in a golden haze, whiling away the hours drawing in cafes, swanning around Notting Hill and enjoying a joke at the wedding party.
Ha, ha.
HA.

There was no mention in the visions of the wilting temperatures in the apartment we were (kindly! I do mean it) loaned. It was on the top floor and the (frankly mad, or cold-blooded, like geckos?) owners had left the towel racks ON (!) so temperatures were in the body-melting hot to hellfire range. You could cook meringues in the bathroom, if you wanted to. Also (ehem - not to be ungrateful, again) Farringdon tube trains/buses/entire public transport system seemed to be rattling right through the flat, shaking the walls as they went. Not to mention the fact the three bathrooms were being re-tiled and the tiler was coming and going and by the way there's no quiet way to cut a tile. And, slightly exasperating experiences with chronically modest communistic-type cousin, who didn't want to put me out by inviting me to the wedding, and kept leaving me with five minutes to dash across town to the registry office, and the like.

So, you know! Eh. How can I sew this up without seeming like an ungrateful wretch?

I know!

THINGS TO REMEMBER

  • Meeting she who writes at Womb for Improvement and she who writes at Nuts in May. They were so lovely, friendly and brilliant. It is SO nice to meet the people who've patiently supported and kept you company over months and months. I believe that far from being a distopic, isolating invention, the internet can be a shortcut through the dross and conventions to the real person, a person who you would never otherwise have met. I don't know what I would have done without you, internet. [Hugging laptop to chest, tearfully, as if it was an Oscar].
  • Hearing Cousin's daughter sing at the wedding party. She's eleven, a sweetheart. Who wouldn't like a kid that tells everyone: Aiii thiiiink you're preeeeetty! Aii think's it's wrooong that some peeeeople have so much and soome peoplee have noooothing. (Bit of a pinko, the apple not falling far from the tree. See above.) Not sure if all the kids in Adelaide, (Australia. Not Texas, or any other) talk like that, all elongated? Could be just this one? Please advise. A dooooote, she is, in any case.
  • Nice Eric Estrada look-alike who found all our money on the train and handed it in. Thank you, Eric. Karmic blessings on your CHiPs helmet.
  • "Flight" on London Eye. Vast and amazing views of the city, stretching to the edge of the world:
PICT0082

PICT0076

PICT0079

PICT0057
View of Thames from party locale

Time for a sit-down, after all that.

T