Totally found my fresh specs, like 5 minutes ago as I was waiting to get onto the computer to write this post. They were exactly where I'd left them; crazy, eh? (Resting comfortably amidst the pedals of the abandoned electric organ that lives in my room, since I know you must ask.) Things are so... crisp. Almost overwhelmingly so.
Anyway, the post I'd had in mind, the reason I was waiting for the computer (slash, trying to locate my Kindle so I could maybe get to blogging from that, slash, locating my paper with my notes for the Hundred Things on it...) Continuing on from the ideas from yesterday's post (which I haven't actually written at press time, but I totally know what it was about, so)...
For those of you reading this from the present instead of the future, let me break down what I was saying, or, will say. My father, especially, is the one who does this; he kind of, doesn't, sugarcoat, the, um, fact that I have autism. I was going on (or, I will be going on yesterday) why that's alright, but, hey.
Church. Have to get in early for choir practice. Don't mind going in early, but, you know. Choir is bull. (Alright, now you know: choir is bull.) Maybe it's the fact that we're always slightly late that does it, but, choir, right? Never go over parts. Never even sing parts, most of the (few) male voices. Maybe that's what does it. But, never go over parts, so, whatever. Just, do a few runthroughs of the piece we'll be doing. And, I figure, it's not like it's worth it anyway. Because choir is bull. But I practice with them anyway, because, might as well, and, obligations. Obligations such as, might as well. And, nobody else is that great, so, might as well. And, I'm supposed to be alright, so, might as well. But choir is still bull.
I'm not that great, though. I can sightread enough to know when to go kinda up or kinda down or very up or very down, or stay on the same pitch or transpose an octave, but I don't do sightreading, like, tremendously. Not enough to muddle through it without some sort of accompaniment, usually, at least (someone singing along with me who shares my part and is moderately alright at sightreading will do the job.) I'm good enough to realize how bad I am, though.
I haven't had a meltdown since Thanksgiving of 2013-- that's a true horror story, that, so I'd like to think that that's never going to happen again.
I can still get frustrated.
I mentioned how choir is bull, right? Throw your choir binder down, yeah; that'll make you look cool, calm and collected. My father, aforementioned not to sugarcoat, noticed my "tizz." Oh. Is that why he's so cool with mentioning anything. Because it's not as invisible as you'd like to think sometimes. And thus, not as, forgettable. Well. Thanks for making me feel self-conscious like that. It's not for nothing, I see. It's not just... the things I thought.
Well.
Good to know.
Also.
I get this post up now, at night, because that's what it's about. It wouldn't work, backdated, to the morning. Have you seen my mom's blogpost today? http://treadingwater-beth.blogspot.com/2015/02/everyones-keeping-busy-and-happy-mardi.html The painting, there... I didn't intend for it to be that much. Just went out a couple Mondays ago, went down the road maybe half a mile, got some practice en plein air. Last week, Presidents' Day, well it was a holiday so spent time with family instead. But, painting, I think I'll do the same thing tomorrow, yeah? Had intended it to be a thing to do on Mondays. Didn't think much of it. In fact, I still don't-- my cattle look more like bison, and all in all the painted scene looks almost nothing like how it did in real life. It was good practice, that's about it.
And yet...
The scan on the blog doesn't do the painting much justice. The colors are so much more vibrant in reality-- the painting currently hangs on the fridge (yes!) and I could see it over there from my vantage point reading my book, and... And it was like, looking past the paper, into the painting itself, as though the painting were nothing more than a little window... I think it's more than just the vignette there, where I simply didn't bother filling in the outer edges, causing this effect that pulls you in. Maybe it's how the colors get deeper the further into the landscape you get. Maybe it's the fact that the thick wet paint warped the paper, which is only medium grade, causing it to get mildly three-dimensional... I still don't think it's that great, but I can kind of see it (Mom's thinking of making, like, prints, and stuff. Prints!)
So, though it may not mean much to me, I think I shall continue. Not with painting, I don't mean-- I told you I'm continuing that anyway already. I mean-- I mean... Continue with, whatever. Art, writing, blogging. Posts about having autism, and how weird that is, and how normal, and how weird it is how normal it is. And really, personal, whatever. More than that, more than anything. Communication. Directly to the brain. Art. Everything. If it means so much...
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