Day Two

Definitely had a rocky start this morning. I was so excited to be done with my first day of not speaking, that I stayed up until 2 in the morning blogging about it -- certainly nothing inherently wrong with this, unless of course, you teach a Beginning drawing class for 17 eager young minds the following morning at 8 am. 

After cursing at myself in the shower (it was before 8 am, and therefore I was able to do this), I stumbled into my clothes, and into the car, and booked it all the way to school, characteristically hitting every red light between my house and the Visual Arts Building at UGA. 

(There are 6.) 

All the while, I'm thinking to myself, "How am I going to start the class?" My students had of course been informed that their beloved instructor would not be speaking during this class, or during class on Tuesday, but I had planned on recording myself speaking to them the night before-- I would have done it too, had I not fallen asleep instantly upon getting home last night. 

Luckily, I had 6 red lights in front of me, the heater on full blast, and the tape recorder in my lap. It went something like this:

"Good morning ladies! (all my students happen to be women, so I can say things like this) I'm speaking to you know with the last precious speaking minutes of my day, while quickly coming to meet you. I'm at a stop light. oh, now it's green. Anyway, we'll be having a critique of your beautiful drawings that you should have completed, and as you all know, I won't be saying a thing. Yes.... yes I won't be saying anything. Um, so what I'm going to do is... oh wait I'm in the wrong lane here... I'll be writing everything on the chalkboard to add to the dialogue... uh, not like I should have to, because you'll all be speaking about each other's work, um, won't you...?"

It pretty much went downhill from there. It was a bad idea to try and record myself in the car, on the run anyway. In fact, I think I was a little relieved when before entering the building, I rewound the tape to check it, and all I'd recorded was the sound of the heater. 

(Shit!)

Class was vigorous. 

I was pretty much writing non-stop. As usual, my students surprised me with their drawings, and again, as usual, surprised me with their willingness to give each other criticism. I felt certain that if I wasn't writing positive remarks, they might not necessarily be said, and no body wants that to happen. 

It's blurry because I'm writing like a mad man. 
My wonderful students took everything in stride. 



As physically exhausting as this experience was, it could have been a lot worse. Today, due to the nature of the critique,  everyone was waiting to see what I wrote. Certainly I was writing a lot, but they would all stop talking and patiently wait to read it out loud (or read it out loud to decipher my awful handwriting.)
All things considered, I think it was one of our better classes. Everyone was having to fill the 'blank space' that I normally fill with my non sequiturs, and mysteriously, I heard my own words coming out of their mouths. At several points, I would begin to write something on the board, only to erase it as I heard someone behind me say the same thing. Clearly, education was happening, and I didn't say a word. 
After class, all of them wished me good luck. I smiled and nodded. 
I had lunch alone in my studio, and quietly made my way down stairs to the print shop. I had some carving to do. 



If I had to make a general statement about this project, I would say that so far, it lends itself very well to working in the studio. 
So well in fact, that I think I've been able to accomplish more in the studio these past two days than I have in quite some time. Partially because not speaking throughout the days makes me for more contemplative than normal-- I find myself receding into myself more so than normal, and additionally, I don't lose time talking to anyone. It just makes sense to keep working, even during those moments when I want to stop. 
I do find that during these times, my internal dialogue is so strong, that if I am interrupted, I have to remind myself that I haven't been speaking aloud all day. So strong is this inner voice that it seems audible to me. 
I took a break to get some materials. 

These guys were pretty sympathetic. Rather than present them with one of the cards, I wrote out what I was doing on a sheet of my notebook, and let the woman running the register reading it (after she asked me a couple of times if I needed any help, and I just kept smiling). She asked me if it was hard. I nodded 'yes.'


Also had to stop by the office supply store to pick up some more notebooks, as I'm almost entirely through my first one (400 pages!) half-way through my second day. 

It's an odd feeling to have a little book that you carry around with you, holding in it everything you've said to other people. 
No problems at the office store -- when I gave the man at the register my "I'm sorry" card, he kept it -- most people have been giving it back to me after they read it. They must have some kind of corporate policy. 
Almost as soon as I got back to school, it was time for our evening critique in my Printmaking Class. I was scheduled to be critiqued today, but I was expected to be there. Critiques for this class are usually spirited, and never less than three hours. I really like the kind of dialogue that happens with this particular group, and was greatly looking forward to participating. 

As it turned out, it didn't quite work out that way. Once again, this was a collection of people who'd all been informed of this piece -- our professor, Margot Ecke, even made a point of announcing my non-speaking status beforehand to everyone. But once we got underway, I quickly realized there was no possible way I was going to be an active player. 
I might as well have been invisible. Every time I wrote something on a piece of paper, and asked someone near me to impart it to the class, I drew so much attention to myself, and the fact that I wasn't speaking, that I was becoming more and more embarrassed. Almost every time I tried to contribute, it caused everyone to start laughing at my "shenanigans." I felt like an idiot. I wanted to just talk so many times. I hate this stupid performance. I hate art. 


I don't know if I've succeeded in making myself invisible yet. If anything, within the context of my education (re: 'business as usual'), I've only made myself more visible - as a wack-job, and a joke. 
So why do I feel like I could evaporate at any time?
Critique ended at 9. I left immediately, and got in the car. 

My truck has become my safe place. I know that when I'm inside, I'm in between dealing with this situation, and having to deal with another. It's not surprising this is the place that I spoke to myself yesterday -- anywhere else, I'm unable to forget that I can't speak. Here, it makes no difference. 
I drove straight to the bar and ordered some drinks (speaking to the bartender, as it was after 11 at this point). 


Drinking alone on a Thursday night? Nothing normal about that. I'm exhausted at the end of every day. Can you blame me?