the alephes


I have to go back to art school soon. My head’s really heavy with this. 

I get into this argument with a good friend of mine a lot. He says, ‘You are in no way different from anyone. There is nothing at all different about you.’ I say, ‘I feel like a fucking weirdo, that makes me a fucking weirdo.’ He’s says that I’m really grasping at straws. 

I started making art full time when I was 17. I’m 24. I took two years out from my degree to have a nervous breakdown and clean up a nervous breakdown. I was a weirdo and then I was normal and then I was pretty and now I’m impatient. 

I spend a lot of time trying to flush all of school out of my head, try to get that way of looking out of me. I’ve spent the past six months in Southern California working at Hot Topic- this is really important. I’m going back to an ultra elitist fine art environment in the middle of a giant city. 

I always get too angry and too frustrated to really work a system. It isn’t that I don’t know how. And it isn’t that I don’t get it- because I do, but it’s really dry and really clinical and it’s boring, it is so absolutely fucking boring I don’t even know what to do with myself. 

I know how to talk the way I’m supposed to, but it makes me really mad. I’m really mad about the work I’ve got to look at, about the work I’m being compared with. I’m really mad about the way the people around me treat making things, about the way my professors deal with making things. 

I’m really mad that working in a shop in a mall in the suburbs was really inspiring, a thousand times more inspiring that art school, not because of the fucking irony or something, but because obsession and enthusiasm are so great, and so amazing and being fashionable and intellectual are so stupid. 

I’m really mad that even after all this time, after being a goddamn grown up and doing what I was supposed to, after totally falling apart and piecing myself really slowly and clumsily and stupidly back together- that I still sit in a stupid art studio with stupid art students and I still feel like an alien and I don’t when I’m helping a dumb fifteen year old boy pick out a Ramones tshirt. 

I am anxious and embarrassed and agitated and angry. I totally get what and who and why I am and I put on my dumb clothes and my dumb boots every morning and make stuff that I really like and I really feel proud of and am really passionate about, and I still feel really weird, still feel really isolated, still feel like I’m fighting something stupid, something really useless. 

I stand behind the counter at work and put on a Stooges album and some kid says, ‘This is so great’ and I say it is. I go to school, listen to the word ‘microcosm’ a thousand times, drive pencils through my eyes. My friend says, ‘You don’t even do anything. What are you even complaining about.’