The road not taken, Robert Frost.
5.1.18| Daily Art
5.2.18| Daily Art
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
5.3.18| Daily Art
Doodling designs for you, coolpeppermint: blog, creative outlet, little corner of the Internet.
5.4.18| Daily Art
Playing with colors, art therapy.
5.5.18 & 5.6.18| Daily Art
Something In The Water
Marble art can be a messy ordeal. Stains, stains, stains. On the windowpane, glass, wood tables. The difficulty of controlling where and how the ink flows. The result, however, is usually worth it–beautiful, organic swirls! 🙂
Here’s a set of marble art pieces I made last week for my Daily Art posts.
5.7.18 | Daily Art
5.8.18 & 5.9.18| Daily Art
5.10.18| Daily Art
5.11.18| Daily Art
5.12.18| Daily Art
5.13.18| Daily Art
Lately I’ve been missing China, with all its scenery and street views and smoggy skies. I went to Shanghai two years ago and visited a massive temple garden. It’d been raining that day, and a headache had thundered on the whole day, but the sights were beautiful.
Also…I’m back to the daily daily art entries and an eventual mass grouping of pieces (as I did with my January, February, March and April entries) The past week, I slipped a bit–mostly due to graduation and whatnot. In the hopes of staying afloat for my project, I’ve decided to revert back to daily posts.
5.21.18 & 5.22.18| Daily Art
Dandelions! So whimsical. I never understood why dandelions were categorized as weeds; I’d always found them as beautiful as, if not more so than, flowers.
5.23.18 | Daily Art
Through space they’ll carry your letters, your musings strapped to their backs and their wings.
Musings: I shredded a stack of photos from 2010, one of the happiest years of my life–I hadn’t known it then. I flipped the images over so I wouldn’t see the images I was shredding. I already had duplicates, I reasoned, and these were just repeat photos of the ones I was keeping. Better to not see them, though, because while I try very hard not to be sentimental, I still am.
Looking ahead gives my heart a little start.
Things I’ve been deeply nostalgic about lately:
– The time we went to Six Flags. We rode every roller coaster thrice. I’d never gone on the rickety wooden ride because it’d always seemed dangerous and then it was but after one ride we got on again–thrice. And we did this for all the other roller coasters as well.
Then there were the calming loop-de-loops, where the city watched us topple over backwards, and the dark mountain ride hurled us from one side to another. “Jesus, take me down!” said the bearded ginger man on camera as we reached the peak of the ride. Hands in the air–reflected glint of a beard–and down we went.
– Our road trip. The exhilaration of sneaking into a riverfront restaurant crammed with the color of sunset. The way the city sloped down ahead of us as we climbed up up up the mountain, legs sore.Canoeing through the river. Dips through winding roads and sloping hills, through village towns and murmuring cemeteries.
– Exploring the city on a whim. Slow walks into pie shops and cafe-bars and grilled cheese restaurants. Walks by the MH bridge littered with flowers and families. Please skate on the flower beds, read a sign.
5.24.18 | Daily Art
In high school geography I painted a Manchester blackened by fumes. In the midst of the industrial revolution, evolution had wielded itself supreme, culling out all the pale butterflies. Only the peppered moths, which blended in with the soot, survived.
5.25.18 | Daily Art
Galaxies: as perplexing as they are mesmerizing. In physics, I loved astronomy most–a study of the skies, of constellations, of singing! imploding warping! screaming hovering! spinning planets.
5.26.18 | Daily Art
5.27.18 | Daily Art
A dress made of constellations!
5.29.18| Daily Art
5.30.18| Daily Art
5.31.18 & 6.1.18| Daily Art
Now you can say you’ve had Vietnamese butter barbecue.
Seafood sizzles on the family-style butter doused griddle. I turn the inions. Pockets of grease bubble onto my wrist. My best places the salmon on its side, browning slowly on the grill. I stab a squid onto the griddle. Ssssss.
We sit in silence. I contemplate the comfort of home, a home, of my best friend’s home, where I feel free to be myself. Her parents’ eyes still bug out each time they peer over and I’m there, in the backseat, unannounced for the 10th time, spacing out. They gasp.
Over the cash register we order our three cups of gelati, Italian ice with vanilla ice cream. The sun sets behind us as we stand by the parlor, eating quietly, plastic spoons scraping against blue paper cups. How do you reconcile a disliking of people with the desire to help them? By cognitively differentiating between patient and stranger. So are you still having a spat? Yes, but it’s not personal.
This might be the last best friend sleepover in a while. The fact that I’m done is slowly sinking in–emphasis on slowly. It’s coming in bits and pieces, waves and wrinkles, unraveling, unraveling. Months ago, the ‘future’ seemed muggy and incoherent. I could barely see past the next five, ten, fifteen years. Now, the ‘future’ has solidified into something uncomfortably rigid, and if I really wanted to, really wanted to, maybe I could look past the next thirty or forty years. Life will life, but the least I can do is plan.
Scarlet scarfs frayed at the edges. Orange-yellow bulbs of life, warm against the blue black bruises of the cold outside. Home is a phone call away.
The coffeeshop is empty, save for the hawkish worker with the light eyes who started a few years ago. He wasn’t here when I was ten, when this place was new, and I only ever asked for mango smoothies.
And it’d come out artificial-creamy sweet, rich sun yellow against a dollop of white. I’d scoop out the whipped cream with the outer edge of my straw, slurp it into a pathetic heap at the corner I couldn’t reach.
Familiar strumming overhead. A lollying tune, an indie low-whine. Drawn out wail of a banjo and musician who sounds like he sports a beard and wears pea-green jackets with camo sleeves,
Lost in my mind, lost in my mind, I’ve been lo-o-o-o-st—
They play this song every time I come in. It’s on the coffeeshop playlist, and it always has ben, unchanging, carved in time, shaping my own musical preferences as I bury my head in words.
Insomnia. There’s a softened edge to memory, to memory’s memory of insomnia, to memory’s memory of the insomniac’s late-night thoughts. Other things mattered then, trivial things, mind-numbing replays of the inconsequential, and that was what kept me up.
The things that matter now stand in sharp relief against the mindset I’d held then.
Sun streams in through the window. On five hours of sleep, I crawl out of bed.
At this coffeeshop, littered with people working hard and hardly working, I order nothing from the bar. I bring a water in. I peruse through reddit and creepypasta and play psychic word games. When I pass the counter, the barista jokes about throwing out my water container, but I can’t tell if it’s a joke, so I laugh as though it is, and throw the water out.
Overheard, Lost in my Mind plays. And for a moment, I’m enmeshed in the warm cocoon of nostalgia, buried in tunnel vision.