Finished the Wittgenstein biography, which I enjoyed. Feels reassuring to read about someone else's struggle with reality, thinking, integrity, marginal status.
Very thankful for the repose and tranquility of my life here, which is little more than eating, walking, cooking, reading, painting, family. The lack of any significant work is allowing me to bathe in the things I like best, but I have enough small bits and pieces coming in to buy more books, food, go into town infrequently.
Can't write a novel because have lived a life from secondary sources, not at the front lines.
Getting up late and doing everything slowly leaves insufficient time to read, work, walk, paint. Next year I will be stricter with myself and paint more. Have a huge pile of books to read and I keep incontinently buying more.
Felt motivated after having committed to a late night of productive (though perhaps not remunerative) work. Posted Christmas cards to my clients, walked around the village in the mist. Spent a long time researching static website generators and thinking about their benefits and use-cases. Philosophised, painted.
Did some speculative work. Walked. Stayed up too late. Ate badly. Imagined devoting myself to art and being as good as the artists on instagram.
I think I attract and am attracted to girls who are more or less delusional and buy into the idea rather than the reality of me.
Made the mistake of looking at artists on Instagram and I'm overwhelmed with the sheer torrent of quality. There is so much good work being produced, and so many highly skilled, dedicated people working hard at their craft. There is just no room for more of the same -- there is nothing new to add, there are no technical boundaries to be pushed and no new thoughts to be painted. Better to have lived in ignorance of the thousands of better artists than to slave away at mediocrity and know it.
Plained to friends about my lot; got advice when I wanted mere sympathy. Practical advice imposes obligation to act and transfers culpability from external circumstances to you; no one wants that.
London and now the sofa in Cambridge. Wittgenstein biography on the journey. Feeling of inferiority to everyone with career prospects, girlfriends, certainty. The world seems to be built for (and by) a particular type of person.
Insufficient time to research, read, paint as much as I would like today. Know very well I am an artisan not an artist, and I don't like it. Probably should be concentrating my efforts elsewhere; writing is the next and final creative outlet where I may yet distinguish myself from utter mediocrity. And that is precisely why I haven't ever written anything, because if I don't achieve any merit through writing I will finally have exhausted all my options and revealed myself to myself as the second-rate try-hard I dread.
Enjoying tremendously the biography of Wittgenstein.
Took some time to go over the 27,000 words of notes and quotations I've taken down over the last 18 months. Trying to construct a manifesto, some kind of structure to what I believe and what I stand for. Need a coherent narrative.
Jess is ill. Her coughing at night triggers my existential dread. Can't repress it!
Attracted to people who are sufficiently self-deluded to have a good opinion of me, and who flatter my pride by agreeing with my own best-case picture of myself. How dreadful when I see myself in an unflattering photo or in a reflection at an odd and unanticipated angle! Just the same with job rejections, client dismissals, tensions with friends, family dysfunction, non-existence to girls, artistic mediocrity: a dose of reality that threatens the integrity of the lie I have constructed where I am in some profound way simultaneously desirable, significant and full of potential. Back to the books.
Showed a photo of last night's portrait to a friend, who askes the hated question, "is that you?". I still can't do this! Why am I trying so hard to do something I'm no good at?
Idled in town waiting to be called upon. I'm always the passive one, maximally available, flexible, toelrant. And so I always wait, get mucked around, expect too much. Ridiculous and self-defeating. When I'm not free, when I leave early, then I'm in demand!