Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category
This is a digital mock-up for my next screenprint, The Island. It’s inspired by Jane Rogers’ novel Island.
And here’s a poem, without title:
“How long?,” my friend howls, neck craned,
She’s self-assured –
Maybe that’s the therapy.
“It doesn’t end,” she dictates.
She knows what she needs, what she feels,
At every moment.
“It’s forever,” she repeats,
In the light.
Howling your annoyance
At the waning sun.
It will be approaching the six month mark soon for when I started this life. This life of shuttling back-and-forth between my parents’ house and cabin, my job and my friends downtown. My car has become my main home, clothes strewn in every place; I always carry a toothbrush in my backpack.
It’s not settling, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel settled here, but it’s an opportunity. I’ve been able to really take strides I’ve wanted to take. I feel tidal waves of passion then stress towards pace. Slow! Everything’s so slow! Things you want to happen are slow! Things you don’t want to happen are slow! Is this the nature of jobs, sucking your time? Of commutes between places? Or just nature itself? Do I just want to speed through time?
I love my commute, though. I love driving. I could listen to the car radio for hours if I had to (actually, I did, chronicled in my book Going Back). It gives me meditation and focus. “The mind is powerful when it has no distractions.” Art gives me mediation, too. And reading. Or maybe anything’s meditation when it isn’t the TV or the internet.
“Encourage madness” is something my friend Sarah said to me over the phone. I was calling her for advice on a situation. I like it. I’ve recently had my feverish pipe-dreams dashed, so I can stand by advocacy for these decisions in life. I’ll be your cheerleader for off-the-cuff decisions, why not?
I actually started writing because I wanted to talk about my art. I wanted to talk about how I don’t see a difference in realism, naturalism, cartooning and illustration. The reason I draw one way sometimes and another other times is because I see them so similar, what’s important are messages and delivery. I wonder what other people see in my “realism” and my “cartooning.” I see them as almost the same thing. Well. I’ve come across a lifetime supply of nice drawing paper at work, so I’m doing a new pencil drawing every few days. I’ll figure this out soon.
I loved the holidays because I get to take time off and draw all day and all night. I wonder if it’ll be the same now that I’ve graduated.
Degenerates with misguided phobias looking for legitimacy in back alleys and their parents’ couch cushions, there’s no way you can live on the streets no matter how much you want to, because everyday life needs money, and money needs stability and responsibility, so no matter how romantic backpacking seems you know you’ll need a bank account for a roof over your head or stitches in your hand. Food is cheap and free but health is a price, protection is a price; your fears are legitimate, and no matter how sad your life is now you know opening the door creates pits, there’s a moat that can’t be breached, so we drink and try to have one night stands and realize the moat is us as much as it is society, and we’re here and we’re stuck and no matter how strongly you despise the saying “making the best of a bad situation,” you know secretly it’s what you have to work with.
Let’s change the way we read books and literature, let’s change the way our attention craves endorphins to survive. Let’s sit through radio plays in languages we don’t understand because there’s more to these things than story and comprehension, because confusion is just as freeing as knowledge.
There are highlights in life but what about the in-betweens, the insignificant, the mundane and the lackluster? I don’t want to forget the secrets of my life, these little intervals that get downplayed. I revel in long drives and cutting toenails, this is my life and there are small beauteous moments that get disheveled by graduations and first kisses. I want to dwell on my bruised elbow and smelly armpits, the soft buzz of the incandescent lamp. The greatest stories of triumph and seduction make us see we’re human.
Why seek comprehension? Why not let go? Where are our safety nets?