Started a reading challenge project mid-spring. The goal: read 100 books by the end of summer. The list is inching along, albeit at a slower pace than I’d like. Figured posting the list on my blog would hold me accountable–also, I get to share cool books! (Note: lately I’ve been reading a lot of poetry, comics and lit, in no particular order) Bolded are some of my favorites; I plan to update every 10 books or so.
One! Hundred! Demons!, Lynda Barry
James and the Giant Peach, Roald Dahl
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, Sherman Alexie
Here, Richard McGuire
Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks
Burned, Ellen Hopkins
Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, Mindy Kaling
Walking Dead 1, Robert Kirkman
Walking Dead 2, Robert Kirkman
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelous
Milk and Honey, Rupi Kaur
Partner Track, Helen Wan
Girl, Interrupted, Susanna Kaysen
Kafka, R. Crumb
Project Jennifer, Jill Rosenblatt
If you have any book recommendations, I’d love to hear them! 🙂
There is no fine line between loneliness and solitude, only a clunky, black-Sharpie-esque streak that delineates both. Even though there are many nights I wonder if I know how to be alone, now is one fine, humid afternoon where I seek solitude. For now, I will pretend that I am the only one here surrounded by people, but not. Not in my own little head, at least–let us play make-believe.
Do you remember when that was the highlight of many days? Make believe: let’s pretend we’re this, let’s pretend we’re that. Let’s pretend that there is no now that’s now, only now that’s tomorrow, next month, next year, graduation. Let’s pretend that all the molecules in my body are melting from the dragging boredom that is time, that instead of electron-grounding it is flesh-grounding, that now it is a change of phase! melting, melting, melting into the cement floor, and nobody will ever notice.
And then: when living in dreams was once a thing. When everything felt so real in your head–the grass, the dew, even the way things smelled–you turned into a zombie. You’d vie for the next bout of sleep just so you could fall into the rabbit hole of dreams. You’d spend your waking hours wishing they were sleeping hours, of REM, of dream-state, of somebody whispering your name across a party and you hearing it.
It’s 1 in the morning. I feel an inexplicably wild desire to photograph the world. The closest I can get to explaining it is via a tiny purple monster inside of me that’s smashing all the imaginary cameras in my heart, bellowing on about viajar, como yo quiero tomar los fotos en un otro lugar.
That sort of thing.
Creative obsessions are kind of awesome but torturous. It is both tiring and invigorating to pour every ounce of your all into furthering this abstraction/concept/thing and not being able to contemplate or do anything aside from it. Then you’re onto the next. Or not. Sometimes you have creative lulls where you just want to punch your way out of the creative rut.
I’ll paint something Ophelia-esque. She’ll be surrounded in a bed of roses that look no different from the rest; they’ll be beautiful, but meaningless.
Am so behind on my Daily Drawings that I’m considering scrapping it & working on art pieces at my own pace instead. Only I’m afraid that that’ll mean fewer and fewer drawings, doodles, poems, etc., unlike I’m stuck in yet another creative rut.