Chapter 2

I get up every morning and look at my face in the mirror. The tired lines are still there, and I accept that they are there to stay. Even on a promising day like today, where it's supposed to be 75 degrees on the first day to my last year of college.

BFA.

Bachelor of Fine Arts.

I whisper it to myself some days, reminding me that I am soon ending and silencing schooling forever. But then there is the fact that now, seemingly in today's economy and status, that MFA's are the new BFA's. Thus I am wrecked again. But then, I also remind myself that I am an artist, and I can do whatever the fuck I want. So I have no more worries.

Rub tired lines, brush teeth, take off clothes, check self in the mirror, be aware of new unwanted areas and take note to take care of them later. Take a shower, put on comfort robe, put on comfort clothes, get wallet, get bag, and get OUT.

The morning after we finally came to our resolution of ending it, I didn't stay in bed. I didn't eat the last gallon of ice cream in the freezer, no. I got out. I went into my little garage, pulled out my old blue Schwinn bicycle from it's dirty corner, and began to ride. I rode in the hazy mist between night and dawn. That's what I remember, the hard haziness. The feeling of freezing wet kisses hitting fast on my face. I didn't really know where I was going, but I had never seen the city so quiet. Portland was like a vast cascading blanket of black. The sky was dissapearing from space, and becoming something new. I remember that that was the only piece of serenity I had held in my mind for a long time. Knowing that there was something new, and bright, even if it was morning. That I had one small glimmer of hope for my pathetic excuse of life for the past four years.

Yes.

We lasted four years.
I don't even know how we went on that long. I do remember though, that there was a point where we would fiercely make out instead of walk the other way. Which, if you ask me, is the nicer but not necessarily the right alternative to a hopeless romance, and hopeless it was.

Now, mornings are still my favorite times. When I ride the street car to my early classes, I purposely arrive a little earlier so I can sit in the back. This allows me to view the early commuters who reign at the hour of eight a.m. Interesting people they are, even more interesting than television, which I don't watch.

One, for example, is the always fashionable old lady with white striking hair, blouse, and sandals with stockings. She is reading a light and fascinating history of the Scottish brigade. Another, the nervous wreck that is always checking his watch and holding his briefcase close like a time bomb. They say security blankets come in all shapes and sizes now, I think they are right. Then, my favorite. The new pretentious art students. I say pretentious because most new art students come in as flawed. This is, thinking that they are better than the world. I thought this too once, and realized I was dead wrong.

I think I chose art because, well, without sounding stupid, art chose me. I never felt like I needed to do something as much as I needed to do art. It was like an escape world, a dream world. When I first started college though, I never knew it was an entirely different world in itself.

If you ever see these people,

Art people,
the people who have the stink eye through thick black rimmed glasses,

then you must understand, they are the way they are because of what they know. It's almost like if you were to be with Sigmund Freud himself. He probably would always analyze you, and treat you like an idiot every time you spoke. This isn't only because Sigmund was a sexist asshole, but because of how much he really knew. And he knew a lot.

The world is Huge.

The Art world is a HUGE world.

There is almost too much to contain in the brain once you are stained into it's newness. The first time I was exposed, and had week to week, day to day, and hour to hour mind epiphanies, I wanted to shoot myself. I knew too much, and I knew too little at the same time. I had knowledge hunger, which is the worst. The power of knowledge, and knowledge is a scary thing. It's powerful, but scary. You can either use it wisely, or become a pretentious jerk.

This scared me, and still scares me.

I am still undecided as to what I AM.

Sometimes, I realize the things I say, but even more the things I think, and I am scared for myself. It's almost like I am spiraling down the rabbit hole of the art world, or even worse,

bitterness.

If I let it affect me, better or for worse, it's up to me I guess. It doesn't help that my heart is broken, and every day becomes a tiresome challenge of bettering myself, and then at the end of the day just not caring.

I think I like to look at people on the street car because they are someone else other than me. They are inspiring. Almost like a cataloger of people who I could end up being. I get to observe, then decide.
It's very amusing.

I watch them get on, fiddle, then I exit. Almost all of us get off at the same stop near the Pearl District, the cleanest part of Portland itself. We walk together, then scatter apart. I am almost a little more heart broken when they leave, because I know I wont see them for the rest of the day, nor take on the opportunity to get to know them, rather than just observing.

I walk to my 8 am class. All classes at this time, are the best times. Not because of what they are, but because of how fast they fly. Something about the morning, or getting up early is like a high. You are drunk on the tiredness of night before, and stay drunk until late afternoon.

I draw, I write, I listen. Now it's all routine really.

So the faster it goes, the better.

My first class though, for this day, is another Illustration class. My final one.

Am I sad?

I don't know, I don't know how I feel most days.