It's 10:30 and I'm zoning in and out and I'm generally worked up and frustrated. The angles on this writing are too sharp, they're coming in all wrong. FUCK

Start over. I wish I had a flat to myself to just get away from the noise of my roommate and his girlfriend: always squawking, always here. AGAIN BITCHING

Start over. Learning to screen print was really fun. The group I did it with might be starting up a collective; if so I might join them. I already plan on using any scratch I get for the holidays to get a little screen printing studio setup in my apartment. Being away from my degree and her for long enough have made me realize how much I miss making art. In my practice, art is about pixie lies and happy accidents. It's a crisp stroll among the falling leaves of my days; it rejuvenates my mind like sleep does my body.

I find it worrisome that there is no art to my job. There is skill, and there are flourishes to make the users' day a bit brighter, but my job is by definition the antithesis of art.

Art is my saccharine coquette, and vice versa. We tease and toy with each other, but it's playful and easy lucky free. We pantomime meaning to each other, but it's only the shell of communication. Art and I obfuscate ourselves from one another. If we could be each grok the other - if I could truly grok my perception of self as The Other, then I think it would all fall apart like a house of cards. Art is my only means to confront the sacred and sublime.

Work, on the other hand, is a strictly left brained activity. It frightens me how easily, how willing I was to sell out and become a corporate cubicle-slut. Trying to give one hundred percent every day is... it feels like it is hollowing me out and coating me with a thick lacquer.

I'll schedule that meeting, I'll cc you on that report, I'll fire off a back end change on \\filelinux before I head off to lunch.

But at the same time, it feels like quicksilver coursing through me (sans the madness, knock on wood). I'm less over-sensitive, more honest, more vigilant, and sharper. I've also grown colder and less compassionate. For a living you'll take the good with the bad, I guess.

How can I reconcile the two lives I'm living? Do I compartmentalize or do I synthesize? Can I have the soup plus the salad?

I feel a little better now. When we write, we are simply exhaling our lives' inhalant.

-The Management.