In the last year of my education, my favorite proffesor addressed the class: "Well, have you thought about what

you will do when you graduate? You can't, I m ust tell you, make your living selling art. You will either have to get what is called a Subsistence Job, or continue to grad school with the objective of becom ing a proffesor, like me." I don't remember the quote exactly, my brain being what it is, but the important bit is that he told us with certainty, at the end of our education and not the beginning, that we could not make a living doing what he had trained us to do. I had never considered such a thing, and I argued with my proffesor after class. I remember him saying, "Well, Georgia, maybe you will make it work. After all, you're much smarter than me." I never knew how to take it. Sometimes I believed that he was being sincere, and other times, that he was being affectionately condescending, or something of th at order. It wasn't a comparison to him that I wanted, in any case- it was the h ope that what I'd dedicated my life to from a very early age would be valuable a nd sustaining. Why that hope had to come from him, why I couldn't devise it myse lf out of sheer stubbornness, I don't know. I can only say that I was a student, and took the position seriously. From the beginning of my memory, I knew what I was going to be. I had a very cle ar picture of myself as someone who made beautiful things, and who would sell th em, not by being charming or anything frivolous like that, but because the quali ty and the beauty of my work was self-evident. I was good, for a kid. I won the art awards in school, and stood out even through college. It made me sure of mys elf. And now, I am not in school. I see art that surpasses mine everywhere, and it doesn't matter how long they've studied- we are in the same group; we are at the selling point. Or the potentially-selling point. The need to sell my work has become a point of extreme frustration and depressio n for me. Today in the class I modeled for, I heard someone say in smug tones, " The true value of art lies in the process, not the final product," and I experie nced a momentary urge to throttle him just for being a parrot. I have learned th e very hard way that without that final product there is no return on a very cos tly initial investment. Having poured all my energy into this, I don't feel I have much choice except to continue with it. I didn't train in anything else to a marketable degree- I did n't think I would have to. This is what my imagination is for. While no one watches it is killing me. I ima gine Matthew's life if I kill myself- he goes to law school, becomes a successfu l copyright lawyer, defends the case of an artist who is being plagiarized, reco gnizes in her a despair that reminds him of me, and determines to save her from it. I am a stepping stone in this story. I am a necessary waste, a plot bump. I am a building point in other characters' lives, and not a character myself. I think of the people I've known, wonder who I might reach out to; there is no o ne it would be appropriate to contact, and no one who could say anything much co nvincing. I've been waiting for this pit of despair to go away; it doesn't, it's steady. Somewhere out there is a person in my position who knew exactly the rig ht answer, and they have already killed themselves anyway. I am isolated. I stand in front of the mirror and wish I could be happy. I do no t wish I were thin, or beautiful- I do not care about my appearance, there is no point. I only wish I did not have this lack eating away at me. The knowledge of my ineffectualness results in an inability to take real pleasure in anything. I try to be light, but it is always there, like a bruise. The small successes tha t used to bolster me, I now regard warily. I have learned over time that they ha ve no collective effect. They are merely elipses... carrying the plot along... p romising nothing.

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have such beautiful dreams. I wish someone could see them. I am so happy when am asleep. I am myself, when I am asleep. In the back of my mind, I know; if i doesn't change, and how could it- it will come to a point one day when I am no expecting it, and it will hurt too much not to do anything.

I hate to be depressive, but I hate more to be dishonest. I have no control of w hat is true, much as I want there to be hope. I am so tired of writing and delet ing these things. They are the only thing I have to write! There is no point in having a pointless life and being too superstitious to point it out.