Monday, 10 November 2008

running up that hill

My mind is flickering again. I'm tired. I knew I'd be tired before I even went to sleep, but for some reason sleeping doesn't make me less tired. I'm thinking, thinking, what am I doing here, and finding it hard to focus on the man sitting at the other end of the table.

As various thoughts flash through my head I'm feeling pretty low, I start to well up. I want to step outside, and come back in and feel alive again, interested. But I don't. And I don't really have a reason for feeling like this.

Apart from every piece of group work I've done so far is shit, my models look like they were made by down syndrome kids, and no one in my group ever gives a shit. This course really is intense.

Today I've promised myself that I will start my routine again, and that I wont pretend to be a little rich boy anymore, that I'll try to make an effort with people. I have to say I'm doing quite well.

But then at the conference table I pull out my phone, and suddenly realise how uninterested and pretentious I must look. I go to text CH, but stop, and decide to text someone else instead.

"Why am I here?"

The reply I get is useless.

Later, at the same table, it appears we are debating three books that I have never read. Only everything is quiet and everyone is trying not to be noticed. So I take the lead, having decided to fuck it. I don't care if I look like a dick, or if my last project was a fail and everyone is laughing at the model, that I didn't make, sitting on my studio. I put on my best I'm-fucking-proud-to-be-British accent and shoot the bull. Pulling out the occasional quote.

"The eyes do not see things but images of things that mean other things"

I relate to this, and head off on a tangent. Realising that I probably look like a pretentious twat. I stop and let someone else speak, but no one does, and I look even more stupid. I flip to the front cover of the bound books and scribble that I must remember to actually read these books, then shove the bundle into my jean pocket. End the debate and go home.

Spending the rest of the night stuffing my face with pizza and harribo. I've never comfort eaten before, but I can see why its addictive.

No comments: