Hello, Floor!

Sometimes space scares me.  Maybe I'm the Universe, 'cause when I find a flat surface, I start throwing things at the 'vacuum'. It gets worse when I'm working the store and a show, since all I do when I get home is sleep and go on the internet. (You'd think there'd be some cooking involved in there somewhere, but mostly you'd be wrong. I should fix that.)

One thing you ought to know about me right from the beginning - I sort of... collect things. Not little bunny statues or stuffed fish or anything, just things I think could be made into something else. Things with... potential. 

I like to think I've created a room for an artist. A room for my artist-self. There are photos and pictures clipped from magazines all over. Jewelry and scarves hanging from hooks on the wall. Bare tree branches tied, growing, on my head board - a little forest for my dreams.  Stacks of folded fabric on shelves, next to books. More books. Houseplants serving as bookends on the window sills.

My artist-self like my collection. Now if only my artist-self had the space to do any thing with my collection. Neither my artist-self or I are any good when it comes to "Don't put it down, put it away!" Hair ties mingle with mixed change and beads under my computer screen.  Half my bed is taken up with laundry at any given time.  Flotsam and Jetsam I've stuffed into the vacuum to fill the hole where I should be creating. 

Huh. Well that last statement was certainly profound. Makes sense though. The last bit of the puzzle is how much of a perfectionist I can be.

So. I fear that what I wish to create can never be good enough and instead fill my personal space with Things-that-must-first-be-done,  ie. the desk, floor, etc that must first be cleaned off etc, so that I can never start what I fear is a failed project to begin with. 

Oh, don't look at me like that. It wasn't that much of a revelation, come all at once. These themes have been percolating in my head for a while. I know I've often had the thought that if I could just get my personal space "in order" then everything in my life would just fall into place. Of course it likely wouldn't. I'd just be all out of excuses.

I wonder what all I could do, if I didn't feel the need to clean first, as an excuse.

Maybe it's time to find out.

PS. Three glasses of wine seems to be the magical amount that makes me not-yet-tipsy-but-with-far-less-inhibitions tonight. I think I may even get the dishes done.