In which I wake up early to get my existentialist on

January 12, 2020. 

We are all burning out.

Yesterday two friends on different sides of the country expressed checking out of the art scene. 

Wayfinding.

So much has changed in the last decade. Change is good of course, but often unsettling. I pride myself on adapting to situations and creating art out of these adaptations. Life, as it were.

My cousin was in California the other day for a corporate training thingy.  Her pleasantly comfortable hotel was a mere 2.5 hours from where I live, but since that's much closer than the 3-day drive to Atlanta, I packed an overnight bag and met her for dinner. The next day I had planned to drive down the coast, find a quaint beachside motel, and do that hotel thing I so often fantasize about. The fantasy is disproportionate to reality now. Instead, I ate lunch, people-watched in the beachside tourist town, (tourist towns feature predominately in my life now) cancelled my reservation at the perfunctory but downwardly-mobile motel and drove back home that day. In traffic.

I'm not an outgoing person. Maybe at one point I will be, (I doubt it) but overall if we were to make a graph, we'd see that no, I've pretty much flat-lined in the social arena all my life. And maybe that's okay. However it wasn't until this exposure came back from the lab that I realized the work I think I should be doing—and the work I actually am doing are worlds apart, and that maybe Morandi was onto something, and that maybe, still lifes are self-portraits.

That's all I've got for today.