remember how annoying i was about the whole trip to london? how there was the rending of garments, the gnashing of teeth and the occasional but well timed sprinkling of ashes on the forehead? remember how i had to talk myself through it, as though i was on a one-way flight bound for a particularly unpalatable bit of siberia?
what gives? it was a trip. a short trip. it will not go down in the annals of history as my bestest excursion ever (though the british breakfast will warrant an honourable mention for its sheer horror), but i survived, had a nice time, saw some people, saw some statues of men on horses, saw that piccadilly circus is a traffic circle (why do they make such a big deal of it? it's a traffic circle!), saw some people with hats, made it home in one piece. was it worth the panic?
so now, yeah, more strange and inexplicable paranoia and fear linked to something that should make me happy or at least neutral: art.
jools wrote me an email about a painting class she is taking. the words "painting class" made my gut cramp up. then she told me that i have a lot to give as an artist and within seconds i was hyperventilating into a paper bag.
but, brave soul that i am, i crawled to the spare bedroom, dragged out some watercolour pencils and a pad, and got to work, fighting the fear and nausea that were coursing through my bloodstream.
again: what gives? what's with these reactions? there is no pressure. i am not in a class. i am not being judged or even lightly prodded. i am alone, trying to face down the sheer evil of the blank page, succeeding somewhat.
this is reminiscent of the whole "you have so much potential" era of highschool, when people made me miserable by telling me all the wonderous things i was capable of. sure showed them, though, didn't i? cleaning teeth for the last 13 years, genius brain that i am, HA!
should i try hypnosis? accupuncture? herbal enema? christ! i am losing patience with myself.