The start of March involved dodging snow storms, hurtling myself into the sky into luck and sunshine to the sound of cicadas in the backyard.
For a week, I vowed not to check my email, so I didn’t. I vowed not to touch any assignments, which I didn’t. I vowed not to work, which I didn’t. Which meant that I missed a couple o’ things… and wrote a 10 page paper the evening it was due… and was clueless for two days. It’s okay, though, having a break entirely free of responsibilities was worth it.
I know I say this every month, but I can’t believe it’s the end of March already. It’s…absurd. Time is absurd. Days are flying. Whiplash.
I feel simultaneously restless and tired. Like a bird that likes flapping her wings, but every time she flaps too far, she flaps right back.
And we’re all little birds, flying and flapping and flapping and flying.
Soon, many of these other little birds will be flapping their wings to God-knows-where. They’ll be too spread out for it to even matter.
I don’t see the point of flying somewhere strange, towards some foggy lull of a dream.
3.1.18 | Daily Art
Roses, sunflowers, peonies, tulips! The flowers are blooming (much to my allergies’ dismay). Smattering of blossoms, confetti of pollen, awakening from winter–
I really do love Spring, if it just weren’t for the sudden eruption of itchy eyes and runny noses. Otherwise, I welcome the sunshine and flowers and clean blue skies, breezy clichés of perfect picnic weather.
3.2, 3.3, and 3.4.18 | Daily Art
I was looking for some old posts earlier today and realized what a deluge of one-two-three sentence art posts I’ve been throwing up lately. Like, these tight-lipped, brief posts, which are so…sparse compared to before. I did initially start a blog to write….but it’s sort of evolved as an online outlet for whatever creative tornado hijacks over.
Has it been writer’s…block? Laziness? The need for a…break? Maybe a combination of all three.
3.5, 3.6, and 3.7.18 | Daily Art
In the sticky hot summers of childhood, we’d return from Friday trips to frozen tubed popsicles, sprawl out under the tree and tear at them.
We’d wear our light blue shirts and jean shorts and go all sorts of places. Like the pizza buffet with the globby cinnamon buns, or nickel-arcade with the Austin Powers game, or the mall, where we’d be chaperoned by older children paying to be there (which I always found ironic…)
Chocolate sundaes–like the one above–played a less nostalgic role in my life; I think I’d only just had my first a few years ago. (And then a few days ago) I welcomed the treat anyways.
3.8.18 | Daily Art
The view provokes a whole slew of memories. Piña coladas swimming in rum. Wild striped beach cats. Sand like velvet grains seeping through our toes, and our sleepy sleepy eyes, determined to watch the sun rise.
3.9.18 | Daily Art
“Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
Grudges are remarkably resilient things.
As are resentment, bitterness, and all of anger’s cousins. They’re the little creatures you hold inside, the red rectangular ones (Inside Out, anyone?), who wreak havoc and throw shit at fans. They stew and stew and stew. They simmer. Time presses onwards, like hardening cement, spinning amalgamation of u g l i n e s s.
It’s better for them to be expressed than repressed, I think. Let it out!…or let it go. (With a great deal of patience, I imagine) And of course, that is easier said than done.
3.12.18 | Daily Art
New addition to the sketchbook family! An illustration of the lovely little sketchbook my boyfriend sent me. It’s a Traveler’s journal, handles a bit of water okay (as per Amazon comments).
3.14.18 | Daily Art
Jets of ink in water. Or swimming pigment. Or close-ups of microbes. Maybe a microscopic view. Or a macroscopic view. Maybe a scared baby octopus. Or an artist’s proteus mirabilis.
I’m curious. What do these look like to you?
3.15.18 | Daily Art
Popped by the newsroom on a quiet Friday afternoon. It’s changed a lot in the past few years. It’s brighter, now. Warmer. It used to be grey and cold and clique-y. Not anymore.
For a little while, I sat on one of the couches, wary of braving the cold again.
3.16.18 | Daily Art
Last weekend I saw some friends and visited a historic prison. Crumbling historic walls, home to a stew of unsettled souls.
3.17.18 | Daily Art
Today, I hung out with friends, and we watched an episode and a half of Altered Carbon. It’s a Netflix show about a dystopian futuristic society in which people, once deceased, come back to life in human “sleeves.” It’s pretty intense. We cooked steak and potatoes and asparagus, a tiny “tradition” we’ve kept up with for the past few years, and paired it with wine. Here’s to wine nights with good food and good company.
3.18.19 & 3.19.18 | Daily Art
Random doodles in experimental journalism, a class I’m taking on non-fiction writing. I’d write something honest about it, except I don’t…feel much like it. But basically, these are the people who happened to be in my midst today, and so I thought to sketch them out, as I often do when I’m bored.
3.20.18 | Daily Art
With eyes like butterflies.
3.21.18| Daily Art
God’s Plan – Drake
Instead of doing the work I was supposed to in the library, I watched videos of Drake’s Plan, instead. Absolutely adorable. If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend you do.
3.22 & 3.23| Daily Art
I’m like, hey, what’s up, hello?
3.25 and 3.26 | Daily Art
Vanity stumbles, sheer veneer. It’s hard to be authentic when you don’t know, exactly, what it means.
3.27.18 | Daily Art
3.28.18 | Daily Art
The streets of D.C are wider, quieter, flatter, cleaner. D.C isn’t as frantic as New York. Or as gritty as Philly. Or as schizophrenic as Austin. There’s something immaculate about D.C., instead, something steely and modern and calm.
From up here, I watch the slow scenes of the city unfold. Cars whizz by, colorful legos beneath our legs. Human beans cross the crosswalks, Beatles-style, almost in slo-mo. Lotion pink berries bloom in angry succession.
3.29.18 | Daily Art
There’s a distinct vibe to the D.C metro, clash of smells and sights and sounds. Smell of metros, musk. Row of escalators, steep. Metro-card, bendy and flappy. Gripped tightly in my palm, lest I accidentally drop it–it’s our way out, this card.
We’re encircled by large beige arches. I’m constantly reminded: we are in a giant tunnel.
3.30.18 | Daily Art