Sometimes I find myself lost in paintings: the best pieces, I think, are transportive. You’re no longer in the pristine museum with white walled divides or the living room with its gaudy frames. You’re on some field instead, climbing over oil globs and brush marks and resting in blended shade. You’re on the rainbow trail dotted with pink painted flora. You’re somewhere else instead, dancing in visual reverie.
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.
Reminder to self: we’re all a part of a giant shared collective experience mired in good and evil and love and fear and desire and emptiness and peace and calamity. (We are all made of stardust.)
I love zines: they’re the perfect intersection between art and poetry and prose and photography with just a dash of weird-creative and jarring-aesthetic and shakes-you-up-prose. Sorry not sorry, but I’m having a major art nerd attack right now: I’ve found zines on zines on zines! And it is, I tell you, ama-zine. Normally, zines are small print booklets distributed by hand. But many–as I discovered last night–are uploaded onto Issuu and it’s f–king fantastic.
Before I forget, here’s a link to the vast array of zines littered across Issuu.
It makes me wish I could write poetry the way these writers do. But poetry always feels so personal. I mean, writing’s pretty personal in general, but poetry’s, like, the stuff of the heart. I only ever write poetry when the heart-stuff’s threatening to overflow and coat everything in sight so I jot it down real quick and show it to nobody.
But I guess that’s why I like these zines so much. They’re raw. Made of heart-stuff. Not like the glossy magazines–they’re more like the, uh, hashtag nofilter creative underbelly cousins of the magazine. Magazines are all dolled up, stuffed with ads. Zines aren’t. And that they’re oft produced by creatives and minorities makes it all the better.
God, all the art and writing is so inspiring.
Started a reading challenge project mid-spring. The goal: read 100 books by the end of
summer fall. I’m 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.
So here’s a list of books I’ve reading; 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
- Dignity, Donna Hicks
- Can We Talk About Something More Pleasant, Roz Chast
- Ginny Moon, Benjamin Ludwig
- Autobiography of Barefoot Gen, Nakazawa Keji
- Meow Meow, Jose Fonollosa
- Beautiful Darkness, Fabien Vehlmann
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- The Skin Above My Knees, Marcia Butler
If you have any book recommendations, I’d love to hear them! 🙂
(Updated as of July 22nd, 2017)
SOFT and blurred and strange like urban carbon decay. i remember
- that year I skipped the haunted house to instead count lonely days
- and periods of my life measured by eyeliner type (from chalky to waxy to dark and smudgy)
- on bad nights I’d tally them up on a sticky note by the light switch that stood by a doodle of a pink cat with an arched back with a perplexed face that asked: why so sad?
- that my project looked happier than i felt and photos belied my true sentiments and only what i wrote was honest
- and the things i painted were honest, too, like the black poster-size painting of what loneliness felt like even though I was surrounded by scathing, laughing, faces, faceless faces I’d forget as soon as I turned away
- it felt like it’d be forever before I ever returned, that the walls were white and it’d be the last night (but not for long)
- I wished to move forward. I wished to leave. I asked: am I unhappy in the present because I live in the future, or do I live in the future because I am unhappy in the present?
- both. the present was shitty in the most pleasant way possible, and looking forward was escapism.
in retrospect, i had something (many things) to look forward to, and it’s here and it’s now. god, i know it’s cliche, but if only i could pause life right now, keep things just as they are….life, stay still. you are good, better than good, fingers-crossed things won’t change.