still empty.

I think boredom is probably just about the most dangerous thing in the universe. And I'm soooooooooooooooooo bored. I get fantasies about pulling up the floorboards just for the heck of it. And my brain says pick a direction, any direction.

I didn't go the the memorial service. I went to the Kunstmuseum instead. We saw Ego Documents. Do egos die if you don't take care of them, I wonder?

What Next

I was hoping to post at least once a month, but I'm not quite making it. Sometimes, there just doesn't seem to be anything to add. I haven't been writing much, and my drawings in protrait class are all wrong. I don't know why. Well, surely, lack of practice. But in spite of a great teacher, I just don't seem to be getting anywhere, which is frustrating. Imparo anche Italiano. Or maybe Anche imparo Italiano. Anyway, I am learning Italian, which is fun. But what? I still spend a large part of my day wading through a house full of stuff which has nothing to do with me, and I resent. I don't resent the ironing or the laundry or the shopping. I resent having to play policeman to the mess, too. "Please pick that up. Please don't leave that in the floor. Put them away, don't just shove them in a drawer." Don't become a full time housewife. Just don't. Fight for your life against it. I have never experienced anything more damaging to my sense of self worth.

And children? Babies? There is a service at the Heiliggeist Church in Bern for all people like me who have lost a child they haven't even met yet. I cannot decide if it would be a good thing to go or not.

But.
If I ever get pregnant again, I will buy my prenatel vitamins one pill at a time, and I won't tell anybody but my gynecologist that I'm pregnant until I'm in labor.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Well, I've become all but invisible here. When I signed up for 3 courses, it seemed a good idea to keep busy. I'm not sorry I did it; I have written some interesting things, drawn some interesting models, and learned some interesting grammatical idiocincrasies of italian.

And the rest of it? I'm no closer to believing I am a writer, or an artist. Why is this so hard? I do things I think are pretty good, but somehow they don't count. What does it take to get over this and just DO. (Forget the Nike commercial; in real life there are loads of people out there, including ourselves, waiting to heckle us like Waldorf and Stettler when we fail.) Yes, I will keep doing it anyway. But why so erratic? I feel like a giant factory machine, responsible for three different jobs. Quick! Fill this bin! It's important! Hurry hurry hurry! Oh, now that one is nearly empty! Quick quick quick! Throw three kids into this, and I wind up jacking all trades, mastering none... I need a cheerleading section. How sad is that. *sigh*

So, here's a tidbit I wrote as an exercise for the class. Creepy creepy:

He dipped his hands into the lake. It was undisturbed and pure- this far north there was little pollution. And it was ice cold, which was good. Ice also had a purity about it. The lake was still obsidian smooth, this early. He made out a sliver of paleness further along the shore; a night heron, standing like a statue, unseen by it's prey. He understood the night herons. His fingers were stiff and red when he took them out of the lake. He fumbled with the oarlocks. As cold as the water was, the lake was clearly warmer than the air; the mist over it was suspended, unable to rise any further. There were depths to the lake never touched by ice or sun. Nearly bottomless. Bottomless enough.
He rowed the boat out. The bottom of the boat was full, with the fishing rod on top, between his feet. Perhaps he would even fish. He heard a splash and looked to see the heron, long bill in the air like a church spire, swallowing it's prey. Good for you. He pushed his brown hair out of his eyes and smiled at the heron before rowing on.

Anyway, just for the record, I'm back to being pissed. Really, really, angry. My kids are still angry. A week or so ago my youngest daughter asked if God killed the baby. What do you say? Then she asked (not kidding here, she really said this) "Is it your fault the baby died?" She's little. She really just wanted to know. She had no idea how much that question hurt. I just said "No, these things just happen sometimes." Well, I can hardly be surprised that she's not satisfied with this answer if I'm not.

Blogger Philosophy

Does a blogger who isn't blogging still exist? Perhaps I just rematerialise once in a while to write this blog.

So where have I been for the past month? Well the kids started school, and I started portrait drawing and an online writing class at Gotham, and on Thursday I start Italian.

Portrait drawing is hard. But The teacher is good. He actually thinks up exercises that will target specific skills and make us get better at drawing. This sounds obvious. It isn't. It is scary how many drawing classes are the same every day and do not move forwards. Every day you go in and draw, but they so clearly don't even expect you to improve. How depressing. Right, so if I draw anything more attractive than vomit, I'll post it. Hasn't happend yet, in spite of teacher's efforts.

Writing. I'm a little disappointed with the class. Once, I actually got a decent bit of feedback from my teacher, and she said 'I'm writing this because I'm stuck in a plane, don't expect this all the time.' Argh. I calculate I've paid about $43 per lesson. No way am I getting 43 dollars worth of feedback. Her participation in the discussions is pathetic. I would love to know how much time per week she is putting into the class. Also, tech support is nonexistant. I inquired twice about formatting, inquired also of the teacher. Never got an answer.

The Vacuum (not the hausfrau kind)

So, I'm trying to cheer myself the heck up here, and keep writing. I'm taking a break from PB texts to write a novel. Exactly what age group this novel will be for is a big unknown. Why? Because my characters keep mutating! This is really frustrating, but it happened with my PB characters too, though on a smaller scale. I feel like I'm writing from both ends. I write a bit of plot, then go back and hammer on my characters, then plot, then people... Eventually, after lots of frustration, the two meet in the middle and interlock, and then I can move forward.

Now, the vacuum. This process is made more difficult by the fact that I am writing in a vacuum. I am not sure if there are any other writers in this area (writing in english, that is), but if there are, I can't find them. I have been rather frustrated and disappointed with on-line critique groups.

I think I'll buy myself a new wardrobe and pretend I'm Kim Possible. I always wanted to be fictional.

I'm on a Blog to Nowhere, Come on Along....

I don't know why I keep writing this blog; it's clear no one reads it. But I guess that's the way it is with writing. And creation in general. You make first, and worry about an audience later.

To be fair, the kids have been great. But I cannot seem to concentrate with them around. There is always the chance I will be interupted, and my brain knows that, and the interesting bits refuse to open their doors. On the other hand, I think if I keep waiting for the perfect moment, it's not going to happen.

So. I am spending my summer energy trying to teach the children many things I do not know, or have forgotten. Long division, playing harmonica, French, juggling, etc... How perverse is that?
My friend is away on holiday with her children. I miss her all the time, but I really miss her when she is gone for several weeks. She listens to me, and I need that. Without it I really start to doubt myself, and my worth. Can I write at all? should I just give it up? drawing, painting? Does it make any difference if I do these things or not? If I am the only one to whom it matters, am I worth the effort? I so need a well-placed kick in the pants.

I can hardly remember any words. I used to know loads of them, but they are failing me recently. Lines, shapes, babies. They belong to somebody else now.

So, it's summer holidays, and I have five weeks of making sure no one forgets their math, french, or german over the summer. Also, I should teach them some English. Ha ha ha...

We are going nowhere. I was supposed to be too pregnant to fly by now.