Dear Diary...
Jun. 8th, 2013 01:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
artistwithasicknessSo, I guess they're all pretty jumped up about having hired a female artist to do this thing (All probably under the impression that a girl doing artwork equals unicorns and faries.) Still, despite how obvious it is that they seemly care more about the PR valueof going against type, I think this could be a very good thing for me. It sure as hell beats working at the bookstore anyhow (although I should be thankful that working at the bookstore is what got me this job in the first place. Who says drawing on the back of order forms won't get you anywhere?)
NERVE Publishing. I knew the name from the bookstore, but only because we sold books of theirs, and not because I was all that impressed with what came of the, mostly middle intrest sci-fi shit, and the occasional bizare horror novel ( the VILLAGE of the DAMNED style one in which the children derive their powers from gnawing on the aluminum siding that covered their portable schoolhouse being one of the more memorable.
The writer they publish was in the shop one day buying a handful of his own recently relased work of obscurity, showing an uncomfortable amount of casual desperation by mentioning loudly enough, "Thats my book." He noticed the little robot I was drawing on the back of one of those innumerable little yellow order forms, and seemed interested enough to ask me to show him more. Then he told me he wanted me to do paintings for color inserts in the new series of short stories he was working on. That was that.
(*/*/**)
Tenna called today. She "misses" me, she says. Lately, the concept of missing anyone is an alien thing since I've been so busy. This NERVE thing looks like it might take a little longer then I thought it would, since Obscure Writer Man seems to have decided on a new look for the images, although I really I get the feeling it's more a NERVE evil puppetmaster decision than the nervous little writer's.
One good thing about the job, so far,is that it appears NERVE, despite their crappy product, seems to make a decent amount of money from this shit. That means I won't be living off Ramen life while doing this job.
(*/*/**)
I feel kind of sick. I can't tell if it's a physical thing stemming from a mental thing or vice versa. My arm hurts and I'm getting headaches. I NEVER get headaches. All this means is that the work is going slowly. The actual output is actually kind of nice, though, since I'm getting to do most of the conceptualizing myself. It's bizarre to relize that, at least for now, doing what I always used to get in trouble for is what pays my bills now.
(*/*/**)
Tenna called again, asking me if I wanted to go dancing. I laughed cruelly at her. After about ten minutes of this laughter I told her, for the hundredth time that I have no time for going out, let along for doing a mad jig to sound. She's been sliding music discs under my door in her own secret hours. That'a one of the few thigns that gets a smile out of me these days. I'll have to remember, once this work in all done and I have time to play human being again, to buy Tenna a monkey.
(*/*/**)
I never knew so many people found my conversation so enjoyable. People keep calling me or dropping in on me as if they actually felt I was someone with a modicum of skill in making human organism feel pleasent in my company. This wouldn't be so bad if I weren't so busy, and especially if I didn't find that mostly all of these people so repellent. It's like having your bodily waste crawl back up the sewage pipes to tell you how much it still wants to be in your bowels.
(*/*/**)
Now I really do feel sick, I can't seem to get any work done, and I want this fucking NERVE thing over with. It's all about having everything changed after submitting them. I'm not even halfway done yet, and it's been forever since I took on this job. I really hate working with other people in creative situations.
(*/*/**)
I've been talking to myself a bit to much lately. I find my conversational ability has become atrophied. I complain too much about things I've gotten myself into. I wish I would just shut up.
(*/*/**)
I keep getting electric shocks. Really bad ones. Every time I grab a door knob, or touch my car, it feels like I'm touching a tazer. I don't know what that has to do with anything.
(*/*/**)
How long has it been since I've touched one of my OWN paintings? The last time I did anything without someone telling me if it's wrong or right? I hate the sound of that fucking phone.
(*/*/**)
Things have gotten weird. That's about all I can say about that at the moment.
(*/*/**)
I dreamed my brain fell out of my head, and wanted to grow a new body. It was crying and telling me that I didn't use it anymore, and that I've been looking at "all those other brains" too much. I woke up and had a brush in my hand, and it makes me feel like shit.
(*/*/**)
Haven't touched a painting in over a week (and that's just the shit I'm doing for the job). My personal work is even more neglected, and just sitting there on the floor of the drawing room. The temptation to just be happy to sit around fucking off while my hands are cut up has been....well tempting. But I push it out of my head the second I realize there's not a single other thing that makes a decent case for my attention.
(*/*/**)
The doll's been singing all the songs it knows I hate. I was trying to just mix some inks so that I'd have what I needed to work as soon as my hands could touch something without feeling excruciating agony. I don't like it when agony happens. I really don't.
(*/*/**)
I've got a meeting with Mr.Nevers later next week. He wants to see the progress on the images from the mutant children book. There's really not that much to show. I havn't told them about my hands (I'm sort of hoping he'll be disgusted with my lack of productivity and fire me). I dream of being a homeless she-bum painting on the walls with roadkill entrails, and feces, with not a single person to tell me to change it this way or that because product testing groups respond a certain way to cat feces over human feces.
One of the good things about my hands being wrapped in bandages is that the electrical shocks have died off a bit.
(*/*/**)
I hate myself when I don't work. I hate that it makes me this miserable. The longer I stay away from getting the pictures out of my head, the worse the world looks around me. Sounds are tinnier, colors to garish, voices too irritating. I see people's faces in that scanning electron microscope kind of way, pitted and crawling with grease and filth and writhing in bacteria.
PEOPLE... I can deal with them at most other times, but right now, with all this shit going on, I hate to bite down on my mangled hands just to keep myself from vomiting on them. Tenna's been calling again. I miss her. i wish she'd be content with knowing that and just leave me the hell alone until I can work all this out.
(*/*/**)
I dropped a box of paints, and the psychic fat lady downstairs complained to the manager that I was not dying in a plane crash soon enough.
(*/*/**)
I dreamed the devil was jealous of God's ability to create life. In the dream, I was still working at the bookstore, and was wearing an astronaut's spacesuit. The Devil seemed pretty lonely, and kept making small talk.
I was busy helping someone find a book, so I didn't get a chance to catch all of it. He was basically saying that he was able to birth his children through from the mind of an individual on whom a soul has been wasted. The product of his spiritual hacking would eventually grow into a creature that, for all intents and purposes, was a normal looking human being. These things were just nasty, however, and functioned only to fuck things up for the rest of the natural world. I told him I thought that it would make a cool movie, and he smiled. Then this huge headed baby flew through the window and exploded.
(*/*/**)
Mr. Nevers called me today. I think he's one of those immaculate products of pure evil the devil was talking about.
(*/*/**)
I HAVE TO WORK. Every time I think about it though, something irritating happings. That fucking doll's affectiong things. I don't know how, but I just FEEL IT. She won't let me even think about working, but I can't let that stop me. Hold on.... the toilet's overflowing
(*/*/**)
... I don't know what to say. I'll write again later.
Later: This is.... nothing. This is sitting around the house, watching the blinds glow, then go dark. glow then grow dark. I listen to the sounds of people making noises outside. I stare at the paintings that clutter the floor. Watching the phone ring, getting so sick of telling people I can't talk right now. Hearing planes full of other brains go by.Hearing the doll tell me to get out and enjoy myself, and forget these problems. all I can think of is empty, smiling faces nodding heads on infomercials. That's what Sickness wants me to be. That's what I think. I think she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to I want to be... I want to be... I want to be Sickness I want to be Sickness.
I want to relax.
(*/*/**)
...I feel sick.
(*/*/**)
NERVE Publishing. I knew the name from the bookstore, but only because we sold books of theirs, and not because I was all that impressed with what came of the, mostly middle intrest sci-fi shit, and the occasional bizare horror novel ( the VILLAGE of the DAMNED style one in which the children derive their powers from gnawing on the aluminum siding that covered their portable schoolhouse being one of the more memorable.
The writer they publish was in the shop one day buying a handful of his own recently relased work of obscurity, showing an uncomfortable amount of casual desperation by mentioning loudly enough, "Thats my book." He noticed the little robot I was drawing on the back of one of those innumerable little yellow order forms, and seemed interested enough to ask me to show him more. Then he told me he wanted me to do paintings for color inserts in the new series of short stories he was working on. That was that.
(*/*/**)
Tenna called today. She "misses" me, she says. Lately, the concept of missing anyone is an alien thing since I've been so busy. This NERVE thing looks like it might take a little longer then I thought it would, since Obscure Writer Man seems to have decided on a new look for the images, although I really I get the feeling it's more a NERVE evil puppetmaster decision than the nervous little writer's.
One good thing about the job, so far,is that it appears NERVE, despite their crappy product, seems to make a decent amount of money from this shit. That means I won't be living off Ramen life while doing this job.
(*/*/**)
I feel kind of sick. I can't tell if it's a physical thing stemming from a mental thing or vice versa. My arm hurts and I'm getting headaches. I NEVER get headaches. All this means is that the work is going slowly. The actual output is actually kind of nice, though, since I'm getting to do most of the conceptualizing myself. It's bizarre to relize that, at least for now, doing what I always used to get in trouble for is what pays my bills now.
(*/*/**)
Tenna called again, asking me if I wanted to go dancing. I laughed cruelly at her. After about ten minutes of this laughter I told her, for the hundredth time that I have no time for going out, let along for doing a mad jig to sound. She's been sliding music discs under my door in her own secret hours. That'a one of the few thigns that gets a smile out of me these days. I'll have to remember, once this work in all done and I have time to play human being again, to buy Tenna a monkey.
(*/*/**)
I never knew so many people found my conversation so enjoyable. People keep calling me or dropping in on me as if they actually felt I was someone with a modicum of skill in making human organism feel pleasent in my company. This wouldn't be so bad if I weren't so busy, and especially if I didn't find that mostly all of these people so repellent. It's like having your bodily waste crawl back up the sewage pipes to tell you how much it still wants to be in your bowels.
(*/*/**)
Now I really do feel sick, I can't seem to get any work done, and I want this fucking NERVE thing over with. It's all about having everything changed after submitting them. I'm not even halfway done yet, and it's been forever since I took on this job. I really hate working with other people in creative situations.
(*/*/**)
I've been talking to myself a bit to much lately. I find my conversational ability has become atrophied. I complain too much about things I've gotten myself into. I wish I would just shut up.
(*/*/**)
I keep getting electric shocks. Really bad ones. Every time I grab a door knob, or touch my car, it feels like I'm touching a tazer. I don't know what that has to do with anything.
(*/*/**)
How long has it been since I've touched one of my OWN paintings? The last time I did anything without someone telling me if it's wrong or right? I hate the sound of that fucking phone.
(*/*/**)
Things have gotten weird. That's about all I can say about that at the moment.
(*/*/**)
I dreamed my brain fell out of my head, and wanted to grow a new body. It was crying and telling me that I didn't use it anymore, and that I've been looking at "all those other brains" too much. I woke up and had a brush in my hand, and it makes me feel like shit.
(*/*/**)
Haven't touched a painting in over a week (and that's just the shit I'm doing for the job). My personal work is even more neglected, and just sitting there on the floor of the drawing room. The temptation to just be happy to sit around fucking off while my hands are cut up has been....well tempting. But I push it out of my head the second I realize there's not a single other thing that makes a decent case for my attention.
(*/*/**)
The doll's been singing all the songs it knows I hate. I was trying to just mix some inks so that I'd have what I needed to work as soon as my hands could touch something without feeling excruciating agony. I don't like it when agony happens. I really don't.
(*/*/**)
I've got a meeting with Mr.Nevers later next week. He wants to see the progress on the images from the mutant children book. There's really not that much to show. I havn't told them about my hands (I'm sort of hoping he'll be disgusted with my lack of productivity and fire me). I dream of being a homeless she-bum painting on the walls with roadkill entrails, and feces, with not a single person to tell me to change it this way or that because product testing groups respond a certain way to cat feces over human feces.
One of the good things about my hands being wrapped in bandages is that the electrical shocks have died off a bit.
(*/*/**)
I hate myself when I don't work. I hate that it makes me this miserable. The longer I stay away from getting the pictures out of my head, the worse the world looks around me. Sounds are tinnier, colors to garish, voices too irritating. I see people's faces in that scanning electron microscope kind of way, pitted and crawling with grease and filth and writhing in bacteria.
PEOPLE... I can deal with them at most other times, but right now, with all this shit going on, I hate to bite down on my mangled hands just to keep myself from vomiting on them. Tenna's been calling again. I miss her. i wish she'd be content with knowing that and just leave me the hell alone until I can work all this out.
(*/*/**)
I dropped a box of paints, and the psychic fat lady downstairs complained to the manager that I was not dying in a plane crash soon enough.
(*/*/**)
I dreamed the devil was jealous of God's ability to create life. In the dream, I was still working at the bookstore, and was wearing an astronaut's spacesuit. The Devil seemed pretty lonely, and kept making small talk.
I was busy helping someone find a book, so I didn't get a chance to catch all of it. He was basically saying that he was able to birth his children through from the mind of an individual on whom a soul has been wasted. The product of his spiritual hacking would eventually grow into a creature that, for all intents and purposes, was a normal looking human being. These things were just nasty, however, and functioned only to fuck things up for the rest of the natural world. I told him I thought that it would make a cool movie, and he smiled. Then this huge headed baby flew through the window and exploded.
(*/*/**)
Mr. Nevers called me today. I think he's one of those immaculate products of pure evil the devil was talking about.
(*/*/**)
I HAVE TO WORK. Every time I think about it though, something irritating happings. That fucking doll's affectiong things. I don't know how, but I just FEEL IT. She won't let me even think about working, but I can't let that stop me. Hold on.... the toilet's overflowing
(*/*/**)
... I don't know what to say. I'll write again later.
Later: This is.... nothing. This is sitting around the house, watching the blinds glow, then go dark. glow then grow dark. I listen to the sounds of people making noises outside. I stare at the paintings that clutter the floor. Watching the phone ring, getting so sick of telling people I can't talk right now. Hearing planes full of other brains go by.Hearing the doll tell me to get out and enjoy myself, and forget these problems. all I can think of is empty, smiling faces nodding heads on infomercials. That's what Sickness wants me to be. That's what I think. I think she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to be what she wants me to I want to be... I want to be... I want to be Sickness I want to be Sickness.
I want to relax.
(*/*/**)
...I feel sick.
(*/*/**)