Visual Paranoia

For the person for whom small things do not exist, the great is not great.
--Jose Ortega y Gasset

I had the day off from the strip club today, and spent my time recovering from my illness, meditating, sleeping, writing and making my home as beautiful as possible.

Thoughts for the day:

1.) Giving away sacred things too easily is the mark of either a fool or a prostitute.

In practice, I am a little of both today.

2.) As previously feared, I AM going aesthetically insane in the style of Mondrian-- I re-arranged all my furniture today, and this weekend am planning on painting almost everything I own-- including my entire drafting table/easel-- white. My descent into this state of constant visual paranoia/painful sensitivity promises to be formal, romantic and, ultimately, as destructive to my peace of mind as an atom bomb. So it begins:



3.) The beauty (or lack thereof) of my domestic sphere impacts my general state of well-being more than any other factor (or set of factors) in my life. If I leave a mess in my home when I run out the door in the morning, I am plagued by a niggling sensation something is--slightly-- rotten in the state of Denmark all day long at work. Making the most of every inch of space I have seems to create an overflow of happiness and resources into the rest of my life. A tidy, happy home allows me to channel my thoughts elsewhere. I can't wait to feel fully settled in here so I can basically stop thinking about it.

4.) Tomorrow I'm going to call my dentist and get a price quote on veneers and make an appointment to get another plastic surgery consultation. I need to know precise dollar amounts in order to start saving with enthusiasm. This time (unlike when I got my nose done last year) if a new doctor does agree to do my chin and possibly eyelids, I am not going to tell anyone until after it's over. It creates unnecessary static.

Sick Leave/Breakfast "Broadway Boogie Woogie"

Suffer them once to begin the enumeration of their infirmities, and the sun will go down on the unfinished tale.
--Emerson

Since last Tuesday, I have been in a perpetual swoon of illness, which my most cheerful efforts at *being* well did not seem to negate (actually I think it's probably impossible to negate the negative-- one must concentrate on the positive to cause a fruitful shift in perception). However, I have been very productive here at home. I meditated with Megan three days in a row, with astounding results. Creative ideas began to saturate me explosively-- like bombs on Dresden. I had a wonderful idea for a novel (it's a secret), which I have started, and made drawings in my studio to my heart's content, focusing on flowers and creating my own personal/domestic iconography, since I am tired of buying/co-opting everyone else's:







Creative endeavors notwithstanding, I must go to the strip club today and see what fun, money and adventures I can manifest. I really am strapped for cash, yet I do wish I could skip work for just one more day to recover. The strip club is not the best place to take it easy.

PS I was so ill I couldn't even go to church on Easter :(

PS 2 The more visual art I make, the more I seem to unconsciously strive to assemble my environment in a more aesthetically pleasing way as a matter of course. Example, breakfast:



I decided I must paint all the picture frames in my living room white. I wonder if I will, eventually, end up like Mondrian, sick and crying in a white-walled ivory tower, watching reality reduce itself to abstract forms until I can no longer relate to anything objectively (which inevitably drives one insane...). All I know is when one's breakfast starts looking like "Broadway Boogie Woogie" and nothing seems sure in the material world, life is getting fucking strange,

I wouldn't be surprised if I do go insane. It's a tradition upheld by women in my family throughout many generations.

Why must I always take things to extremes?