PLACE #6 - Minneapolis Auto Show

Re-reading past blog posts is always a semi-poor decision. They say that artists execute their most profound work through the hardest times in their life. Normally I can say this is true for myself, but it was clearly not true through the month of February. If I had been able to write about what I was going through, “profound” would have been the word of choice to describe my posts. But I had to write about romantic love. I had to pretend that nothing was wrong in my life while I wrote it. Fake. I don’t do fake. Re-reading my posts flushed me with embarrassment, and it wasn’t because I wrote about my personal love and dating experiences. It was because those experiences were so ungracefully presented, so horribly written, so lacking in soul and movement that it made me want to remove my entire blog from its unmistakably pathetic existence.

My February endeavor was meant to be profound. It finished up lame. Knock about ten notches off of my self-esteem after stripping me naked, and that is how vulnerable I feel right now. Even as I’m writing this my confidence has plummeted so steeply that I am literally afraid of each sentence as it’s typed out so cautiously, so scared of making an ass of myself yet again. I’m sorry, Reader. I know my strengths as a writer. I know my weaknesses. I depend greatly on my mood for the quality of my work. They say professionalism equates negating emotions and mood, and that whatever is going on with an artist personally shouldn’t affect their work. I am not the professional I thought I could be. I forced myself to write every day in the month of February regardless of my depression, regardless of how much I did not want to write about things that I really didn’t care about anymore, and especially didn’t care about in those moments of writing about it. You can see it in the writing, can’t you? I can.

I went to the Minneapolis Auto Show a few weekends ago. I’ve written it off as place number six of my twelve. I have nothing interesting to say about the show, truth be told. The company I was with was fun and I enjoyed myself. I met Bumblebee and Lightning McQueen. That was pretty cool.

The colors were spectacular, a palate from any artists’ fantasy. The lights gave me a headache. The smells were the smells of things new and expensive. The carpet was soft to walk upon. The designs were futuristic and impressive, and were of a “I think I just stepped out of a time machine and into the future” sort of quality. I sat in a Jeep. I took a free bag. I left feeling quite indifferent.

I don’t feel like writing right now, so this is all I’ve got. My well is dry. I’m not sure I can refill it. So, The End.