Monday, July 23, 2012

"That I am Up to No Good"

I'm writing in bed, in one of those Sunday morning cocoons that has lasted well into early afternoon. I've got a warmed up mug of Shane coffee (I can whip up a foamy soy cappuccino or create the most delectable caffè breve but his simple black coffee is a thing of beauty, and mine is a diesel-fuel like mixture that functions well in all manners excepting taste.) Molly and I have read a chapter and a half of 'Goblet' and scoured YouTube for all things Potter, having realized that our British counterpart fans have aired some specials that we'd never seen.

I'm in bed. I'm in bed, I'm in bed.


Husband and daughter both remarked on my not needing to ice my nerves into oblivion, and I reminded them that while, yes, I've been pain free all morning, I have also been in bed constantly since the exhibit. I was also miserably ill until last night, and the bed rest and lethargy have pulled me into a small puddle of depression. There's likely a bit of narcotic withdrawal in the chemical stew as well, as I pushed a little bit beyond my maximum dose to finish the art work. (Read: I was an all out pill junkie until the show, when I took the stashed-dose that I had saved so that I could attend and enjoy the reception. Then I abruptly stopped and have since been sick.) The depression was like a listless, disconnected, grey thing until tears pierced it this morning and seem to have made a little tear through which I can see a pin prick of light.

There are a great deal of things to write, examine, process. When aren't there a million ideas to untangle and form? I've decided to write more intentionally, and to dip a frightened pen into fiction. Do not look to see anything remotely like that here for some time. I'm terrified of fiction, and I couldn't explain this if I had to. My brain was designed to write it. I write in my head like an unstoppable flow of monsters and metaphors- I think in magical terms, seeing everything through a lens of literary melodrama. Mythology is like a template on which everything is arranged. Campbell and Jung filters fill my mind, but I write about pharmacology and coffee recipes, parenting tactics and television. I probably always will- it's an unstoppable habit after 25+ years of journal keeping and blogging. I think I want to try something more substantial, though.

Maybe I can find a course in fiction. Maybe I'll play with fanfic frivolity under a pseudonym on LiveJournal. Maybe I've been switching to Snape slash after Molly falls asleep hearing the latest Potter chapter. Maybe. I have at least one inner circle friend who is urging me to write more. "I love your images", she tells me, "but I LOVE your words." At least two art professors agreed my writing was my best skill. I was going to be an art theory lecturer, publishing with coveted "Ph.D." after my hyphenated name. I have neither, having decided that occasionally I'm allowed to give myself a goddamn break. See the hrevans scrawled on my prints, the middle name dropped and the last name neat and concise and matching my daughter's and husband's. Some time after bringing that lovely, delightfully challenging willful creature into our lives and rediscovering web writing, the desire for post-graduate studies evaporated from me.

Again, I've ended up writing too much and too little at once. I want to write about that inner circle- the collective of best friends, rather than having a Chosen One. I want to write how I finally ordered the Deathly Hallows Part 2 DVD after Molly processed the previous two films in the series without any emotional damage. I want to write how Severus Snape is the most compelling character and how delightful the banter is between my baby and me- her first celebrity crush is Rupert Grint, and we have enthusiastic shouting matches: Ron! SNAPE. Ron! SNAPE. I promise her he'll actually be redeemed, that he is fascinating, and she looks at me as if I've declared a crush on a slimy slug found after a nasty rain.

I'm obviously having a ridiculously good time sharing this fandom with my little one. I'm getting close to a passable McGonagall accent. My Hermione is perfect, I think, and I've read Snape so well that Molly was scared and needed Mama's native twang back to comfort her. Shane, meanwhile, keeps calling Harry "Charlie Nyx," making me snort with laughter remembering the Mercury Falls/Mercury Rises books.

So my brains circles like a dog (werewolf? Who said Lupin crush? No... maybe...) trying to get comfortable around fictional writing while escaping into other people's fantasy books and movies and reveling in laziness on Shane's last day of vacation. He's been off this week and has had great Molly time, although he and I haven't had a single date. We'd planned on seeing The Dark Night Rises opening night, but I was ill, and I stayed that way, and I'm not sure the experience won't be ruined by heart-smashing awareness of Friday morning in Aurora. And that sounds fucking selfish, yes? Oh my movie might make me tear up now. Horridly shallow thought. And now I remember weeping openly at Heath Ledger's performance in the last film and that now/still stands alone in its pitch perfect excellence. Next weekend? It's Chris Nolan. He was my favorite director before Batman. I can't not go.

I obviously need to ground myself back into real life, but I am not sure what I want that to look like. I've had the BODY show on my brain so long and before that it was painful healing time, and now I need to see what my life is now. My therapist is going to need a valium herself after my next session, yeah?

So, I hope you're well, and my dear ones who showed up at the Artwalk, I can't tell you how much your support means to me and my fellow arty Marauders. The feedback was delightful, including both an amusing observation that Megan's, Gregg's, and my friends drank more wine faster than at any other reception at Romano's and a really great mention in the WV Gazette's PopCult blog.

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