Inktober Pt. 2

Inktober continues. See part one here.

inktober7

inktober8

I bought new pens… Trying out lineweight differences.

 

inktober9inktober10

She loves Madeline… inktober11inktober12

 

Who we are versus who we want to be:

inktober13

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Inktober Pt. 2

Below the Line

There’s a sickness in my soul
It’s filled with self-creating holes
The blood both paint and soap
washing painting losing hope
Entropic forces rip apart
Tear the wholeness of the heart
Ceaseless void and darkened eye
Deep and never-ending sigh

(abstractrelationsvi)

Below the Line

Inktober

Inktober was initially started by Jake Parker, an illustrator who wanted to become more consistent with his drawing habits. Now it is basically a worldwide, social media event.  Basically, the goal is to do one ink drawing a day.  And while it may seem like it is just a way to gain more social media attention or to have pressure to produce vast amounts of work in one month, I think it really ends up being so much more than that.  Even though this is my first year doing it, so far I can already see how a challenge like this can help to spur on new ideas and reduce creative block.  Every drawing doesn’t have to be amazing or beautiful.  They don’t necessarily have to be complex and intricate.  But they are supposed to BE.  And honestly, one of the biggest things about being in any creative field is bringing things from ideas into BE-ing… getting past that fear of the blank page, the fear of what-if-it-doesn’t-turn-out-like-I-hope, the insecurity of I-am-not-good-enough, and the paralyzing I-don’t-know-what-to-make.   So here’s to pushing past all of those things.

I definitely hope to see some improvement and skill development over the month.  I have already been reminded of how much I love drawing!

I have gone a couple different paths and here are a few of the results thus far:

inktoberfirst

inktober1

inktober4.jpg

inktober3a

Fun Fact: As you can definitely tell if you look, the last one was drawn on the day when I actually had to Google what year it was because I could absolutely not remember.  I had written ’18 and then something in me said ‘hmm… I’m not entirely sure if that’s correct…’  Turns out, it wasn’t.  Definitely still 2017 here. So.  That made me feel old and/or crazy. And made me wonder: what did people used to do when they forgot what year it was before the internet…?

Happy Inking!

 

inktober

Inktober

Referential Existence

Words are so remarkably frustrating. They never fully encapsulate what I am trying to convey… the swirl of thoughts and logical strands, the elegant images and buzz of emotions tingling in my veins… they never flow out of my mouth, instead they tumble and crash like the waves on a beach trying to reach the dunes but failing because their shoes have been tied together and so they fall on their face and are dragged back to the sea of confused meaninglessness by the moon, which doesn’t even make any sense because the moon is so far away so how can its influence reach us.  These things, these letters and words are so limiting so constraining so endless so infinite so definable so utterly incomprehensible…

I took a poetry class in my final year of college.  I sat in a desk,
watching our professor try to pull the strands
just enough to let the light come through the impressions painted with pens,
just enough to get a glimpse of the supple curves and delicate skin,
without shedding the fullness of the harsh light that would shatter the seduction.
Just enough to convince us that we are not alone in our aloneness,
that others, too, are thwarted in their attempted sharing of the solitary oneness of self,
looking to the tilted mirrors of those around them, disappointed.1
Yes, and2
That others, too, recognize words as an elegy to what they signify,3
wavering between being and loss, awash in an incommunicable sea of existing.
That others, too, have sensed the strangeness of holding an unusable, yet somehow beautiful, broken tile of memory 4 in hand with a gentle wondering of what to do
that others, too, feel themselves at the center of a powerful and baffled will,5
Yes, and that others, too, are desperately avoiding erasure6
Aware of oblivion’s inevitability7
And the feeling or fact that
what has been done will be done again
and that there is nothing new under the sun8
And that originality is a myth
And that why is ultimately unanswerable

And so,

Vladimir:             What do we do now?
Estragon:             Wait.
Vladimir:             Yes, but while waiting.9

 


1 Hass, Robert. “The Apple Trees at Olema.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
2 Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: An American Lyric. Graywolf Press, 2014.
3 Hass, Robert. “Meditation at Lagunitas.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
4 Hass, Robert. “Novella.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
5 Hass, Robert. “Misery and Splendor.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
6 See footnote 2.
7 Reference to John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars
8 Ecclesiastes 1:9
9 Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. Grove Press, 1954.

Referential Existence

tran.SIT.ion

Hello out there to the few, the proud, and the emotional. 

. . .

This blog:

my blogging cycle

This post:

this post

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

My Current Life Transition:

transition

 

Obviously both have pros and cons, good days and bad days, and much more to say about them then I listed.  And I am incredibly grateful for my architecture freelance job. But in general, these seem like some of the biggest differences, a week into the transition:

 

jobs

Gotta get off this computer. My shoulders really are killing me… How did I used to do this for 8 to 11 hours a day?!

tran.SIT.ion

Systems Thinking // effects of effects

The innumerous nodes of the system shift infinitely, are shifting. In spite of their untangleable entanglement we, perhaps unconsciously, persevere in our belief, our obsession with one directional cause and effect. But the cause of the causes of effects were (a/e)ffected by other causes in the same way infinitely unless there was one first cause, which isn’t that the big mystery, so please no more reductions of the irreducible and solutions to the insolvable. We and me and you.
Let’s revel in the complexity, our understanding complete in its incompleteness.
But I preach

To her
Because she has an undying obsession with answers. Trust me, we know. We tried.
Dying that is. That year. that year is the one that haunts, that demands, that is eternally unentangled. Because him and him and her and them make too many trails to follow; they loop and swerve and intertwine like necklaces thrown in a bag and left for years because that was all an act and the curtain was drawn and the scene changed and now even if she wanted to separate them she couldn’t.
But she does want to separate those chains of days, to complete the autopsy, for what died was her hope and perhaps the black box of her heart could hint at the happenings causing the crash. She may not be able to reconstruct but perhaps she could aid someone else’s avoidance.

But time disperses all nodes which feels more like the continual ripping of stitches rather than the healing of wounds. And she awakes again from the dream of a memory of an idea, who was once flesh. But her reinvigorated desire to detangle is thwarted by the dispersion.
And so platitudes fill her, pumped by the society obsessed with succintness. Forgive and forget to keep calm and carry the dark days tucked away where nobody can see them because they’re over now, over your head, that is. Today is a new day, because we say so even though all the days are the same spinning spherical ballet connected only by the thin strand of memory and the untangleable web of effects of effects of effects of effects of effects…

 

Systems Thinking // effects of effects

/cr\ack/s

(undated journal entry from some time between August and October 2016)

The water of the shower drenches her in sudden insight. The realization of the reason for the sudden and intense need to leave the room trickles through her hair and down her back. The idea percolates through to a place of understanding somewhere deep inside of her – a place the influence of past and unconscious is unearthed beneath the surface of conscious present. This place where the paper is filled with imprints and smudges, the floor covered it eraser shavings and splatters of white out – the remnants of constant battling.

The clay she forms remembers the places it has been touched, mended, and punctured.  Though it does so silently, only revealing these memories later, when tried by fire. Only then do the cracks appear, shedding light on the previously unseen mistakes/damage/mishandling.

She realizes in this moment that she is this clay, cracking in the kiln of marriage. And just now in the kitchen he was not her husband, but her father. And the fear that left her child self hiding in her bedroom some evenings, brought about by his anger, was suddenly cracking her surface.

/cr\ack/s