january 16, 2001. I'm having one of those nights where I can't seem to get started on the massive amount of homework that awaits me. I haven't started cleaning the house...but part of me almost wished that my procrastination could take that form. At least something would get done. And at least the bathroom wouldn't be a pit of dust & hair. I think my problem is schedule. I have six three-hour classes this semester, which doesn't sound like much until you consider all of the assignments, presentations and summative projects that have to be completed out of class. It's an awful lot to deal with when you've just come off vacation and your motivation's low. Plus, all I seem to be really successful at these days is sleeping. Given a choice of rising time, I've been habitually sleeping for 12 hours. I don't know why. I think it might have something to do with the massive amounts of Nova Scotia snow being dumped on my warm house every day. But hey, what would millions of years of evolution have to do with anything? I can't figure out whether I'm following my biological destiny or merely being a slack-ass. But in the end, does it really matter? I spent my morning spinning in frustrated Type-A circles, trying to create a picture worth keeping with my pin hole camera. It's quite ironic, really - I spent an hour last night writing a paper about how stiffness and repressive structure have killed my confidence in creating art, then I spend hours trying to make the perfect print in a primitive medium that depends on luck. Duh. It wasn't depressing, tho', just frustrating. I would wallow out in the knee-high snow to a tree, set up my shot, and then spend 10 minutes developing a piece of crap. My third and final shot was terribly out of focus, but interesting - so I decided to quit before frustration made me unpleasantly hostile. Despite my bitchings, the Boy is quite taken with this print - he claims that it fits his lo-fi music composition perfectly. That's flattering. He tells me that I'm pretty all the time, to the point that it has become an off-hand remark...but appreciating an artistic product is something new. Gratifying. And I must admit, it was fun to wallow about in the deep deep snow to set up. Even failing wasn't so bad, as I got to bond with others that weren't doing so hot. Friendship in frustration. And that's a slice of alright. My afternoon educational psychology class is getting awfully good. I've always liked psychology - hell, I almost majored in it - and it's fun to be in a humanistic, useful branch of psychology. Not that strange mindfuck experiments on psychopathic rats aren't fun to study...but this is just a tad less arcane. The only problem about psychology class is a problem with this discipline in general: everybody wants to talk about everything. It's almost impossible to get through a given topic before we have to move onto something else. I'm not throwing stones - I'm just as much an irrelevant talker as anyone else - but it still seems a bit excessive. I guess those are the parts when I'm not the one talking... two little pigs created with a font from lindkvist. oink!