Jackson Pollock, I still don't know ye...

I just spent the last five or so hours hopping among nearly twenty different information sources about the life, death, and turmoil that is/was the life of Jackson Pollock.

Four pages of outline notes and quotes, and it's supposed to be a seven page essay, double spaced.

This is like wading through a mountain of psychiatric reports, soaked in that liquid paint he liked to use so much. If anyone ever wants to write my biography... I will point and laugh at them from my comfortable little hovel of a grave.

Biographies bother me. When it comes to books and characters, I sometimes have a bit of difficulty discerning characters from real people (and vice versa), so I can't really walk away with the sense of reality that is needed. Perhaps I write too much. Perhaps I put too much thought into my own charactrs that they become my own real people, and those who write biographies inject their own personal view into their subject to the point that it isn't a "true" biography any more.

Bah.

Macaroni and cheese time, followed by sketching and Hallowe'en Kink Night.