I'm thinking I would like to broaden the scope of this blog even further, so that I will actually, you know. Write in it occasionally. I have lots of thoughts bubbling in my brain, but it so happens that few of them are feminist sound bytes. So maybe I will just talk about my life, in which there is feminism but it isn't so often neatly packaged.
Here is a simple fact it has taken me about ten years to realize: I am sick sick sick of being around people who hate themselves. This is something you learn to ignore when you have a pointless desk job. I'm so desensitized to self-hatred that sometimes it even creeps into my own brain when I'm not looking. Which is a real fucker, lemme tell you. Self-hatred is harder to get rid of than bedbugs, and it will suck the energy straight out of your bones so you can't even launch a decent extermination campaign.
I'm filling up sketchbooks lately. I throw them away when they're full, because nothing will kill a person's desire to make something like the weighty expectations of a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist. I don't have a final product in mind. Someone asked me recently, "what do you draw?" Anything. Nothing. Patterns. Whatever makes my brain feel awesome. I'm not afraid of seeming simple. I like exercising my ability to ignore potential criticism, and potential praise as well for that matter. It is an exercise in believing that I am enough. Even if I am not a great artist. Even if I never have An Important Career. Even if my face never launches so much as a single ship. Even if every word I write is trite. Here's to Doing Shit Anyway. If we're just going to listen to every person who says we can't possibly do what we want, why'd we bother to grow up?