Driftwood means nothing. There's no analysis, and no interpretation. It just is, which is probably why I'm struggling so much with the creative class I'm taking this semester. My last assessment scraped a pass, and I've never cut it so fine before. I spent days on the stupid thing, and only just slid by.
Creative monologue? Sure, I can do that. Use it for critical self-analysis? Uh... What?
I have trouble understanding other people at the best of times. Apparently, I'm absolutely hopeless at understanding myself for an assignment. I would applaud anyone who actually does understand themselves. Or I'd simply not believe them.
Perhaps the analysis is what I'm having difficulty with. I don't have meaning. Why should anything else? When I like a painting, or a play, or a book, I like it because it entertains me. Not because it makes a statement about society or environmentalism. In the same way, I write to amuse people, act because it's fun, and paint to hang pretty pictures on my walls. I have enough to worry about between classes, men, girlfriends, family, politics, fuel prices, budgets, and deciding what the f*** I want in life. Once in a while, I like to find something that's just pleasant. Uncomplicated, unthinking, uncritical, and nice.
Surely, I'm not alone in this. Does anyone else want art and film to just shut up for a minute and only be entertaining?
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