May 23, 1999.

"And I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there.

You know I love you baby."

- "shoreleave"

...after which, he starts whining in a strange high-pitched voice. But there's a helluva poet in Tom Waits, to be sure.

I'm not sure what I want to say about today. This weekend has been fraught with anxiety for me. The extensive readings I'm responsible for (I made photocopies of required supplementary material an inch & a half thick yesterday) make me extremely nervous. As does my cash situation: after buying three more required texts, I'll be down to 73 dollars. I have no idea if that'll last me four months. And I have no credit card, no safety net, no in-house sibling with a job to buy food (see the Boy's complaints in last entry). Oh, I'll be okay. It's just that it makes me nervous, is all.

I idly considered artistic modeling the other day: the pay is good, the only problem is modesty on my part. Of course, I don't have time to work, not when I'm taking one more course than the university recommends. But that isn't my main reason for rejecting the idea.

I mentioned it to the Boy, of course, wondering if he'd have problem with what the job implied. He didn't, per se...his objections had to do with staying still for long periods of time and coming up with my own poses. Somewhere in my head, a quiet bell sounded.

"How do you know so much about this?" I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"Because [my ex girlf] went to art school and she badgered me about posing nude. But I would only do it for her."

And my face just fell. No, I'm not experiencing sophomoric jealousy that the Boy was (gasp!) occasionally naked for extended periods of time in front of his then-girlfriend. Put that thought away. My dismay is broader, I think.

Because, you see, I have nothing similar to offer. I am not an artist, in any sense of the word. I do not produce art. I cannot offer to immortalize my beloved in art because I do not command art. And that's only part of it. Do you know how hard it is to receive a rudimentary education in art - in painting, in sculpture, in poetry, in prose, in music - to be at a point in your personal development where you can not only discern, but actually appreciate art on an instinctive, gut level...and then to come to the inevitable conclusion that art - good art, great art, even mediocre art - excludes me? I know just enough about it to know that I am not an artist.

I have nothing to say to art.

I have nothing to say to the universe.

I have nothing to say to God.

Because that is art. And although I have had assurances that the Boy's ex was a limited artist (specifically, that every statement was utterly self-centered to the point of abstraction), she had the potential. She could offer him art.

All I can offer is publicity. Notice in a little web project that is most often lost in the crash of the surf.

This is not a suitable dowry.