Welcome To My Bed

Lame sauce.

A week and a half left of classes and I have far too much left on my plate. But not really.

Things:

- lit paper due tomorrow (must finish reading a book in order to write said paper, am only half finished with said book)

- art history/lit paper due Tuesday (I have to react to a piece of art or writing for six or so pages; relatively easy)

- child psychology paper on media influence due Thursday (I don't want to do this, it was assigned at the last minute)

- economics paper/presentation due next Thursday (rough draft complete, I'm not forseeing much that needs to be changed)

- Totoro (I am making James a stuffed Totoro to take to LA with him so that he has something to squish while we're apart)

There is no time for making art, not even writing seriously. My paper journal is suffering. My immune system is suffering. I was so very sick yesterday and couldn't even get through Pillow Talk before falling asleep some time around eleven or eleven thirty.

I wonder a lot lately if art is something you have to make time for, or is it something that just happens? I mean, this semester has been overwhelming to a certain extent, maybe because of all the reading I've had to do. I'm hoping next semester won't be so crazy, but there is no guarantee. At the same time, last semester I had plenty going on, and I still found time to take pictures and paint, and I drew throughout the majority of my notebooks.

Time is a commodity that you can't buy more of. This summer I will have a job, as I should, and maybe I'll even have two; will that leave time for art or writing or anything I want to be doing? Maybe I need to spend less time napping or sleeping at all. I can most likely function competently on about five or six hours of sleep, and with the other 19 or so hours of the day, I'll probably work for roughly eight hours, giving me 11 hours, about half a day for all of the things I want to be doing. But realistically, how much time will I waste doing nothing? Is it even a waste of time to do nothing?

I just want to read books and write so much that I can fill books and draw and paint and make things that I think of as beautiful. I want to do things that cost very little and save my money for my plane ticket so that I can arrive in California with a tiny suitcase and a fat wallet, so that I can take James to a fancy dinner and make him smile with all the stories I have for him of interesting people I've met and experiences I've had.

I am idealizing so much. It's dangerous, but I don't care. I am doomed to hope.