The past couple of weeks have been absolutely brimming with emotions. Frustration, stress, bliss, comfort, annoyance, panic, contentment, and the knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be. (Except for this nasty cold . . . And the karaoke.)
My door is shut against the sound of my dorm floor's Christmas party (Bah, Humbug!), my drawing utensils are scattered about me, making a halo of chalks and cray-pas to my prostrate body, as I lie on my stomach, gazing at a blank sheet of 9x12 paper.
I have to stare at the sheet for a second, poring over every square inch of white perfection. It always intrigues me, takes away my breath for a minute. It's beautiful in its very newness, yet I wonder what it will become. It's pure potential.
(As are we all.)
It's times like this that my senses are heightened, that I love even more the feel of the chalks between my fingertips; I revel in the chalkdust leftover on my hands, the dust caught on my carpet or desk as I gently blow the loose particles from my drawing.
I've organized my drawings in this end-of-semester frenzy, realizing that I need eight more before the end of the week is up. I've been drawing steadily through the semester, but I'm too much of a perfectionist, and that's my hangup. If I had realized earlier, my teacher doesn't care what it looks like. She exclaims over a few stray coloured marks across a sheet of black paper -- the squiggles must speak to her. But I'm clinging tenaciously to my belief that my drawings should BE something, something I recognize. At this point, it seems that for me to resort to churning out Modern Art, well, it seems like a cop-out.
So I'm here tonight, listening to
Shivery, staring at reflections of Christmas lights, and catching a glimpse of random snowflakes as they lazily waltz past my window.
I'm distressed. Christmas Eve has always been my favourite of the Christmas holidays, for Christmas Day holds memories of hot, dry air, blindingly bright sunlight, and a tangle of emotions, including being on edge, frustration, confrontation, and being rushed. I love preparing for Christmas Eve -- I love anticipation, preparation, the excitement of looking forward to something. And this year, I'm being robbed of it. My last final is on December 23rd . . . which means that I'll get to my parents' house either the night of the 23rd or morning of the 24th. NO TIME TO PREPARE ANYTHING.
I feel as though I'm robbed of one of my favourite parts of the holidays. And that makes me
so sad. I think it might be the culmination of a ton of things on my mind, but I cannot wait to have a place of my own, a house, with a husband, with some colour other than BEIGE on the walls. I want to slather indoor semi-gloss paint onto blank walls (and revel in the colour and smell of the latex paint), pin up some of my artwork and photography, arrange furniture, bake, cook, do dishes, organize my spice rack, go grocery shopping together, lust after baby clothes at the mall (oh, wait, I already do that . . .), make the place a home, comfortable and welcoming.
