I'm going to Disney Land...

It's Sunday, the desk is full. It will be all day. I'm at the short terminal, the least favored. I was willing to take a tall one away from Loni, but not Nina. In my own mind youth loses. I can't do as much from here. People don't see me to check out, it feels less official, and awkward having someone at the level of your knees checking out books. And I'm the furthest from the return counter, I generally can't beat any of the others to it.

My skirt is sitting at my waist. It feels weird to have any piece of clothing do that, I'm not used to it. I like things at my hips...

There was something I remembered today on the way to work. It's strange that I can forget this, and for so long sometimes. Art is a huge part of who I am. It is my soul. My life blood, and I don't mean simply doing it. Being a part of it in all it's forms. Other peoples art, talking about it, seeing it, studying it... I was so intrigued by Alex and his love for Annapolis and the sea that I forgot I had that same love in me, for something else. I forgot myself. I find that grievous in retrospect. I long to share that with people. I want them to see it the way I do, to love it a fraction of the way I do.

I'm sick of fucking around. I feel like I've spent a good deal of my life that way. In the sense of how I conduct myself in reference to what I do. I've been so afraid to take the chance to be an artist that I haven't tried. (Written contractions are stupid, we replace one letter with an apostrophe, it doesn't save us any time, but writing it out feels too formal. In Edith Wharton's "House of Mirth" it strikes me as interesting that they separate contractions so that it would be does n't or have n't. It gives a different feel. Like capturing a hint of an accent or an attribute of the times.) I've fucked around with retail for years, because it's safe, now I've fucked around with the library. I think I'm moving to NY regardless of an internship. I think I might just look for a full time job in Brooklyn, take advantage of my brothers incredibly generous hospitality and perhaps eventually get a place of my own? When things seem established enough to do so. I like the idea of living with him because it is a huge safety feature. I don't have to worry as much about being a tiny girl alone in a big city...

I should make a real effort to pay off my debt so I don't go up with a small burden that just builds. I know I'll bring on debt initially, I don't mind. I'm such a cautious person the prospect of being less so is appealing and nonthreatening. My internship searches have been distasteful and unsatisfying. I want to find things that more closely approximate my interests. A lot of administrative stuff, or graphic design, for which I am not qualified. Even something menial, I don't care, as long as it's connected to illustration, or art or photography... I'll do the grunt work, I'm happy to, to work up. There art jobs out there, are those positions all filled? I'd love to be involved in the creative process for a movie. I wish I knew how to be, or how to look it up.

Rich makes brownies for Sunday staff at CRO. They are borderline raw today. I like undercooked brownies, but these are a little too undercooked, they taste more like the ingredients in them than the final thing, a brownie. But I still like them enough to eat more than one...

Closing thought. People with mental disabilities don't bother me, in the sense of feeling bad for their condition, it's hard to feel bad for people who are happier than most of us. But what does get to me is someone who is fully conscious and physically disabled in some way, like a child with a muscle or bone disorder who is bent and contorted but in every other way she functions as highly as other children. I almost wish her mind where as disabled as her body, her life would more likely be easier for her, especially as she gets older.