Apparently writing cranky blog posts about not putting enough time into my own work got the inertia out of my system, and I have started being productive. For myself. I'm still clocking in at 12 hours a day on day job/side projects/volunteering, and I'm tired as all hell. But my frustration at having zero personal output in comparison to all that I am clearly capable of accomplishing for others was exactly the lit match I was waiting to be dropped under my ass. I submitted a drawing to a colouring book project. I made a face wreath tonight out of wilting anniversary flowers. And I picked up supplies for an art party that I'm hosting in a park on Sunday. Everything hurts. I could have fallen asleep an hour ago. But I wanted to be working. I wanted to be making. I don't want to feel frustrated any more.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead" is something that comes to mind at busy times like these. But also a story of my great-great grandmother in the Ukraine, who died and was buried. Then as her grave was being robbed, she woke up, scared the shit out of the robbers, got herself out, and walked back home.
And yes, this is a photo of floral-related debris on top of a washing machine. It just happened to be the most comfortable and convenient place to work this time.