“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
A string of thoughts, in no particular order:
holding on & letting go
December 10th, 2013 // 12:50:00 pm
On the car ride home I detected, from the smoky poof of our deep conversation, wispy strands of respect in your eyes.
I really like people who have kind eyes. People with kind eyes are compassionate, and compassionate people have kind eyes. And kind people are beautiful and nice to talk to, and you can see it in their eyes. -trails off into a tune due to wordy redundancy-
But people can have normal eyes. People can have snarky eyes. People can have flat eyes that hover between life and lifelessness. And people can have sly eyes or suspicious eyes or cold, hard and dull eyes.
As my art teacher once cried: “Eyes are the window to the soul. Serendipity!”
I thought it was spelled “Sarahn Dipity” and wheeled around. “Who’s that?”
Sometimes I’ll miss people for their eyes. Whenever I have little moments of peering into people’s eyes, I’ll take a small creepy note of the types of eyes they have: far set, close-set, deep-creased, light-creased, blue or black or green or tan. Search for clues of their soul window decor. Like curtains of kindness or meanness or tiredness, or sadness.
Those with kind eyes are the ones who emanate the wisps of respect. Those with unkind eyes are the ones who pretend nothing ever happened.
Perused through my old Tumblr and found this old post from 2013. I remembered the exact moment I marinated in these thoughts. Again with the winding roads and a heart full of resentment.
But less than three years later, puedo decir con confianza: all hail the force of forgiveness. They will sweep through your heart’s city and burn down houses of bitterness. For the better, ‘course, and I’m glad they did.
It’s a bittersweet day.
Exhaustion’s hitting me in waves. At work I wrote stream-of-consciousness poems in my yellow fineapple notebook. I wrote about the way the sunlight filtered in, the way I let our presence expand, the way the green fabric folded, how I held onto time and just listened. There wasn’t much to say.
You’d think that saying goodbye would get simpler, faster, easier with time. It doesn’t. There’s that saying about being grateful for having something in life that’s difficult to let go of, and it’s true:
How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.
But then bittersweetness just sort of snakes its way up up up, rising like bile. And there it is again: the melodies, the memories, the abyss.
I’ve slipped back into life as it’s been: seeing friends, talking to my boyfriend, spending time con la familia. I hear about relationships fragmenting and forming. It’s strange how relationships, by default, are in flux. I imagine that friends in the mid-to-outer circle are changing–not so much for closer relationships. But I guess that’s an illusion.
Life is too short to not spend it with the people you love, I murmured. Did you just read an Instagram caption? my boyfriend asked. I huffed. I said that it was a midnight musing–not an Instagram caption. But it’s true. To me, at least. From reading children’s books to books about death and illness and meaning and regret, I gather that this abstraction–love!–that poets wax on about and singers warble on about and writers scribble on about is what matters most. It isn’t money or material items or career or achievements or resumé markers or positions or charm. It’s the simple, deceptively simple! equation of existence: to love and to be loved.
What I am trying not to face: a lurking purplish abyss.
It sits in my chest. It rises at the prospect of change. Of goodbye’s, packed bags, new cities, separation, winters, fluorescent lights. Of time passing by too slowly. I see myself trudging through snow, finding pockets of peace, but also succumbing to the abyss. I don’t want to, clearly, and most of the time, I don’t, but it’s growing louder.
This, now I know, is the cost of attachment, of love, of care, of connection, of all the soft squishy-icky-gooey things of cotton-candy existence. Indifference renders you apathetic. But things akin to the four-lettered-word, they’ll leave you with every variation of human emotion.
(That, I guess, is the price we pay.)
Sometimes I’ll have moments I know I’ll remember for a long time. Years later, they’ll come as flashbacks, these fleeting connections. Before I’d never imagined how much certain people would mean to me. Then it was like something had cracked the casing around my heart like a nut and I was the Grinch with a heart that’d grown three sizes too big.
I’ve compiled all of my daily art entries from February, a month that fled by.
For the first few days of February, I spent it at my best friend’s place, where we cheered the Eagles at the Superbowl on.
Later, we went to a club, where there was free beer and loud music and familiar faces, where people aggressively pushed and shoved for free fries. And over the weekend, we went to her little cousin’s birthday party, where the girls–gangly and tall and awkward and weird and silly and uninhibited–crowded around, then lost, the hamster.
And during the Super Bowl, we prepared dinner from scratch: buffalo wild wings, garlic bread, mac & cheese (all from scratch, too). We stayed up until 2 in the morning talking about our lives, ourselves, our friendship, our relationships, The Bachelor.
In addition to all of that, I painted, read, ate, prepared food, talked on the phone, watched the Superbowl, and relaxed. All of this was done in PJs. It felt like a proper break, like the ones they issue in school every season, a designated time frame for rest.
Collecting your jar of hearts
2.1.18| Daily Art
Alone we traveled armed
With nothing but a shadow
We fled, far away
Hold your horses now (Sleep until the sun goes down)
Through the woods we ran
(Deep into the mountain sound)
– Of Monsters and Men
2.2.18| Daily Art
Halp, there are flowers sprouting from my scalp.
2.3.18| Daily Art
Only time and impish impatience. Scuttles around eyeing the hands of time—move faster. Sludge, drudge, space that warps—move faster. Built-in distractions, like tea, pasta, zombie—move faster. I egg on time, lament time, tickle time, ignore time—time, you tease, move faster.
2.4.18| Daily Art
Little Corgi pup, little Corgi ruff.
There’s just something about their big fluffy ears and low-hanging tummies and heart-shaped booties that make them so endearing, you know?
2.5.18| Daily Art
Wrote a news article about an organization discussing Greek organizations. The interesting part was that half the room was made up sorority girls who seemed like sorority girls, to be honest, and openly criticized fraternities but defended sororities. Not all that surprising–I just didn’t expect there to be such a Greek life representative turn-out. It made for a more balanced article, I think, or at least made it easier to give a balanced perspective.
2.7.18 & 2.8| Daily Art
Trope-like perfection, emanating an idea.
2.9.18 & 2.10| Daily Art
Sometimes the sight of lines and crowds of faces buried in their phones seems satirical, like some art piece critiquing the future’s “apparent lack of human connection,” etc. Eyes glued to screens, small rectangles in our hands, community of disconnect. Such Futuristic! Satirical! Commentary! Except it isn’t. It’s just reality, and it’s now, and it isn’t satire–it’s just me changing the song on Spotify and responding to my BFFFFFFL on Messenger and posting this onto Instagram.
2.11.18| Daily Art
The Love Issue: an illustration I did for a publication article on love unrequited.
2.12.18| Daily Art
Meme Kings, Political Duo
In the past few years, I’ve been lucky enough to photograph both Obama & Biden–political duo, meme kings, best friends, and the 44th Vice President and President of the US. 🙂
(Missin’ you both)
2.15 & 2.16.18 | Daily Art
Half circle with the line in-between, ON. I pressed on. Greeting Mac chords. Blank screensaver with nothing but a spinning globe. Command-R. Nothing. For the seventh time.
Earlier, at 1 in the morning, I’d reset my computer, erased all the data, unwittingly unlocked myself out of the Wifi. Then I couldn’t access anything on my computer. Couldn’t reboot, erase, or properly reset it.
It wasn’t all for naught. A few days without my laptop was…beneficial, I think. So much of my time gets sucked into the laptop, convenient and always-at-hand, that I seldom realize how much of it could be used for other activities (like reading or drawing).
In the end, I took it to the Mac store, where the Mac guy, Ian, fixed it in ten minutes. (Luckily, I’d already backed everything up!)
2.17.18 | Daily Art
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve devoured books. Found the nearest library in my neighborhood, stocked up on books, lugged them home, then read myself to near-blindness.
It’s a little different in a university setting.
“Cool, what class is this for?” the student-librarian asked.
“Oh, I was just bored.” I said, sheepish, “just being nerdy.”
And working towards my elusive goal of reading 100 Books.
2.18.18 | Daily Art
The sun peeked out from over the clouds and the sky dolled herself up, brushed herself blue, and the wind felt sing-songy, hummed us a lil’ tune. For a day, it was warm!–it was spring! I watched a squirrel build its tree nest.
2.19.18 | Daily Art
God Save Our Young Blood. Crooning duo, autotune melodies: this new song by Lana and BØRNS has been stuck in my head.
2.20.18 | Daily Art
I love being able to roam around the city by foot, by train, by bus, by plane.
2.21.18 | Daily Art
The background reminds me of one large watery bruise.
got bruises on my knees for you, got grass stains on my knees for you, got holes in my new jeans for you, got pink and black and blue
2.22.18 | Daily Art
Prickly in pink!
2.23.18 | Daily Art
Meow. Saturday night shenanigans. It’s only our third weekend out (third? maybe fourth), the three of us, but maybe we could make a habit out of this. Dinner, then drinks, and smattering of randomness in between.
We’re talking silly random shit over cards. I’m sipping my Taro boba (this Taro, I told them, gives me life).
“You remind me of a cat,” my friend said, “just the way you act sometimes.”
My other friend chimed in in agreement.
I looked up, then did the human equivalent of purring in pleasure. I can’t tell you how flattering it is to be compared to cats.
2.24.18 | Daily Art
Did you know that fish can become depressed? We often relegate fish to the bottom of the mood-humanity scale, chucking them as the in-between of insects and sentient creatures. But fish do have moods. And you can tell based on where, in a tank, they’re swimming.
Picture a half-mark line in a tank. If the fishies are swimming above the line, swerving in and out, and seeming active, they’re likely happy. But if they’re always hovering near the bottom of a tank, they might just be depressed.
2.25.18 | Daily Art
Front page illustration (my first!) for a magazine.
2.26.18 & 2.27.18 | Daily Art
Anniversary. We’d gone out to a comedy show, watched two groups improv-battle it out over dinner and drinks. I remember the guac–partitioned from the salsa, of course– cheesy enchiladas, peering at his eyes, room erupting with peals of laughter, looking towards the stage to see funny girl #2 in pink toppling backwards. I felt buttery, warm, happy. The show was pretty good–the first group was a little awkward; the second group, phenomenal. Things might be funnier when you’re tipsy, but the second group was funny. A duo of pros oozing comic chemistry on-stage. Hilariousness in their own right.
Don’t you believe in a little magic? No, only neurobiological responses.
Only feel-good neurotransmitters spurting across synapse to neuron to whisper overused phrases outside
and under the stars
Only “electrical currents”. Only “Dante”. Only “the kind in museums” and “literary figures in the middle ages” preserved in oil and turpentine I stayed up last night to draw
a figure named Beatrice.
Art does all the immortalizing– not me, not you, not any of us.
I looked at a trash can strewn and crooked and swore it was art. Saw shadows fanning light and searched for the source. Thought how can this be? and how are we here? and I’m glad everything just is. I kept these things to myself until I realized, in steady sobriety, that this was reality, that this was the nighttime, that this was the glittering town spread beneath our legs, strands of hair spinning free, stories up above the ground, city sprawled beneath the bumper.
Wednesday night sentiments.