So there's a combination of factors at work. The husband isn't around much these days and it seems to increase the tension when he is. It's both frustrating and interesting to hear someone else struggle with the kids. Today is the one day of the week when he was home. I think he had hoped that it would be the funnest day ever, to make up for lost time and he forgot that it just doesn't work that way. You can't play catch up with kids, you can't pick up where you left off. We went snow tubing in the morning, which was fun but was plagued with the little technicalities and problems always associated with coordinating three kids to go in the same direction at any one time. Then there was the time at home. I just haven't been in the right place to write or paint this week and thought the time would be better spent cleaning out the studio.
I sorted through three boxes of paperwork. Half finished short stories, rough drafts, poems -I have a stock pile of ideas to sift through and on top of that all my collected essays and readings on the place of women in society, economic anthropology, and the politics of gender. Damn I miss school.
I miss teachers telling me I'm brilliant. I miss pages and pages of my own notes that make sense and don't containing shopping lists. I miss that feeling, like I was on the cusp of some new idea or understanding. In a practical sense I know that I can accomplish a lot on my own I just have to be disciplined about it. I know an MFA in writing is worth about as much as the paper it's written on, but oh, the temptation. I think writing and striving with an audience simply feels different. Not so dependent on the dips and swells of my ego's tide. Where I am now I feel a little bit like a hamster in a wheel. I don't know if any of my efforts will ever amount to anything but I keep scurrying away. Tuition seems like a lot to pay just to have someone pat me on the back and tell me I'm going in the right direction though. Ah, well. It is what it is. These are the mommy blues in all the varying shades.
Maybe I can take one class, either writing or painting in the spring. or go to a conference or a seminar.
Like a reflex, as my writing dries up, the ideas of images for paintings start flooding my brain. Weather and time depending I should have new items in the shop soon. We'll see. . . .
I sorted through three boxes of paperwork. Half finished short stories, rough drafts, poems -I have a stock pile of ideas to sift through and on top of that all my collected essays and readings on the place of women in society, economic anthropology, and the politics of gender. Damn I miss school.
I miss teachers telling me I'm brilliant. I miss pages and pages of my own notes that make sense and don't containing shopping lists. I miss that feeling, like I was on the cusp of some new idea or understanding. In a practical sense I know that I can accomplish a lot on my own I just have to be disciplined about it. I know an MFA in writing is worth about as much as the paper it's written on, but oh, the temptation. I think writing and striving with an audience simply feels different. Not so dependent on the dips and swells of my ego's tide. Where I am now I feel a little bit like a hamster in a wheel. I don't know if any of my efforts will ever amount to anything but I keep scurrying away. Tuition seems like a lot to pay just to have someone pat me on the back and tell me I'm going in the right direction though. Ah, well. It is what it is. These are the mommy blues in all the varying shades.
Maybe I can take one class, either writing or painting in the spring. or go to a conference or a seminar.
Like a reflex, as my writing dries up, the ideas of images for paintings start flooding my brain. Weather and time depending I should have new items in the shop soon. We'll see. . . .
