Flowers in-bloom after the rain. If you look closely, you can see rain droplets clinging to the petals. (Aren’t they beautiful?)
The other day I sat in a hot car for too long, maybe five hours, and by the end of those five hours felt a sort of exhausted bitterness wash over me- like my body was drained and my arms were heavy and I was irritated, irritated, irritated. I wondered for a moment why it felt so familiar. And then I remembered that that was how HS had felt like. Every day, by 3:45 PM, when I was bored out of my mind, sedentary as a sequestered squirrel, I’d feel that same five-hour-long-trapped-in-a-car heaviness. But now I can let my hair down and sprint across fields and speed across highways and go to the bathroom without raising my goddamn hand. I feel free in the simplest of ways.
I’m a fountain of love in the shape of a girl / You’re a bird on the brim, hypnotized by the whirl
Completed graphite portrait of Bjork, first sketch in my new portraits notebook. Every time I think of Bjork, I hear her melodious tittering voice and Bachelorette in my head.
There is a moment in Bojack Horseman, an adult cartoon I recently finished, where one of the characters goes: I wish we knew when the good ol’ times were when they were happening so we could enjoy them then.
I have an odd little feeling that this might be one of the happier times in my life, and that I’ll miss it. I can’t say for certain–I can’t go into the future and look back to nostalgically decide how happy I was, but I am. Happy, I mean. Happy with the people in my life, happy with what I’m doing, happy to be where I am. I was pretty happy in… December, and then from February to April. Dipped into some weird existential haze come summer 2016, which would have been a sublime time to have watched Bojack Horseman. Instead I meandered aimlessly, sinking in sweaty bony skinniness and devouring Marukami, who made everything feel dreamlike.
Bojack would have been ideal to watch in the summertime. I’ve just finished all three seasons, rationing out episodes to one per night (generally around 2 in the morning). In terms of content, it’s deep, but doesn’t seem it at first glance. It’s little like treading into a pool that steepens from 3 ft to 6 ft: before you know it, the water’s up to your chin. The show is, to put lightly, dark, which is unsurprising given that Bojack’s depressed, mired in self-loathing, and manages to fuck up all his relationships. Yet it isn’t just a sad show: it’s funny, it’s clever, it’s deep and it’s strange. It’s whimsical. It’s meaningful. And it’s beautiful, in a weird funny way.
Ironic to be watching such a sad show when I feel, in general, pretty upbeat. I guess it temper things, evens them out. At any rate, I’m grateful for the up’s in life, and if this does happen to be the ‘good ol’ times’, I’ll try my very best to savor the here and now. (This is my cheesy spiel)
Sketching Bjork, Icelandic artist and singer.
Recently I bought a new sketchbook that I’m planning to fill up with realistic graphite portraits…starting with Bjork!
Drawing on Photoshop of a fictional girl I named Mai. I really like drawing portraits, in case that isn’t obvious…heh.
Year after year, I return to the same conclusion. And that conclusion is what pushes me to calculated impulse, almost like Freud’s trauma theory, except maybe repeating mistakes to fix the first one made.