life is feeling pretty stressful. the only job i can so far find available is working for the prison system. i dont qualify for much. and i suppose i will never have the desperation to apply for a job watching hardened criminals. i'm fairly certain i wouldn't pass that sort of interview as just entering the facility would probably instill a helpless bodily shaking.
i wonder if i'm supposed to move. i wonder how much longer i can survive without making money. i wonder what is going to happen to my art my tools my supplies. what if i can't make art any more because i dont live anywhere even slightly conducive space wise? its been hard enough here and its almost impossible to imagine finding a better place if we move as we will have less money to work with. i wonder if i will loose it. my mind. my will.
i'm not happy right now for sure. i'm tired of the endless testosterone from all sides of our dwelling. the grunty weight lifters below us that come at all hours of the day and night. new neighbors above to the side of us now, 4 college kids who all live in a completely windowless apartment. no windows. none. that can't be good. banging and clanging up and down the metal stairs, their loud puppy voices waft directly into our loft as they clamor on their little balcony for the only drop of air and sunlight they can get. the endless sound of next door neighbors peeing and flushing and the near insane constant showering and washing of clothes that drowns out our one escape: netflix.
i still dont think it was a mistake to leave vermont. tod agrees. sometimes i say lets go back see if we can get our old care taking job back and he reacts like a cat that has had water thrown on him. he is done with that world. that weather. but we both know we still haven't found our thing. our place. our people. it's hard to believe we dont have a frickin clue. not one clue. we can see now i need to be closer to an art market. but we both feel unsure about if galleries are the answer. i dont know where i belong and its getting really tiring. i keep thinking make all the art you can right now because this might be the last time/place/space. then i think why bother i just have to stuff it/store it. spending every single day trying to figure out what is next mostly just paralyzes me. its as if we aren't seeing it. we aren't looking outside of the box far enough. the clock is ticking with a lease expiring and the more stressed i get the less likely i will conjure up creative possibilities. i just dont believe that my life long conditioning of being a failure is really true. does that make sense? no one can save me but me. i'm not sure how to do that anymore. the rules have changed, my life is completely foreign to me.