All this really means is that I have no time to do everything I want and need to do on any given day: run, swim, write, make art, fall in love – so I don't go crazy; and work – so I don't go hungry, or lose my house/ studio, or not be able to buy coffee and beer and smokes.
And this week the writing has more or less stopped. But I am in an entirely unrequited love affair with someone who doesn't know and probably should never know, which is nice. And this painting is coming along, which is also nice:
It's a retelling of Delacroix's Christ Asleep During the Tempest.
I am looking at it from the point of view of the essay I have (not) been working on about The Tyranny of Happiness, and from the Freudian/ Bataillian/ Kierkegaardian notion that our sense of self and our humanity derives from anguish, and that suppressing that experience is alienating, dehumanizing, and in Kierkegaard's word: inauthentic.