Didn’t do much today. Should’ve been working, but I had about as much creative juice as a dessicated horned toad carcass, so I just flopped around and ordered some interesting scarves off e-bay. I don’t wear scarves, but I’m sure I can find something artsy to do with them. Failing that, I can always wait until I finally go completely off the deep end and play fashion show with the cats.
War tends to be draining. Just the knowledge of it. Even for those of us nowhere near it and barely effected by it, the knowledge that somewhere people in planes are shooting at tiny little white heat signatures sucks the joy out of you. It doesn’t matter now whether it’s a good war or a bad war–it’s just a war, and a lot of people who just tried to get through life as best they could getting taken out of it again. I feel grey. I don’t remember feeling this general glum malaise in the air during the Gulf War, but in retrospect, I was ten or twelve then, and isolated in a house where my grandmother’s ghost was a significantly stronger presence than any of us living beings, so it could have been just like that, and I just wasn’t in a position to observe.
Maybe this is what it’s always like. Maybe back in the Pelopennesian War, Greeks or Carthaginians or Romans or whoever it was–I confess, my ancient history classes have themselves become ancient history–people roamed around the agora and spoke in sort’ve hushed, depressed voices and got mad occasionally for no real reason, and felt like crying at random things.
I have to start working again tomorrow–being a working artist, I only get a day to mope, and whether I feel like painting or not, the shit’s gotta get done. But today I guess I’ll just lay around and read books on decorating on a shoestring budget, and try not to think about tiny running white dots.