and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

I know I'm really angry when my mind is so tied up in it's seething and bubbling process of hatred that all motivation goes out the window. Normally this would be the perfect sort of time to pick up a guitar or sit in front of the computer in order to hammer out something useful or beautiful from the whole deal.. but there just isn't any energy for it. It's like some sort of unexplainable catch-22. You decide to go running but you forgot your sneakers. You decide to build a cabinet but you forgot your hammer. The idea of productivity is there. The thought of production is thick on the air like ham in the smoker.. the tools are just not available.

Sometimes I wonder if this is a personal flaw. When the real shit hits the fan - when there is real emotion there that would normally make for the greatest catalyst in the world - I seize up. It's almost as if nothing that comes out is good enough. Not good enough to explain the want or desire, anyhow. Not good enough to explain the roaring disatisfaction. Not nearly good enough to serve as a simulation of my state of the union. Perfectionism rearing it's ugly head.

When I look at the Statue of David or Starry Night I sometimes wonder how they ever did it. It's as if real artists fall on one of two sides: casual to the point of not worrying in the least or bitterly emotional to the point of bleeding on the canvas. I guess I lie somewhere in the large grey area that constitutes "the middle".. which about sums up all of my disatisfaction with the situation.