Bittersweet

 

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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.

August 2017

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May 2018 | Daily Art

 To see more works from May, you can scroll down in the box below

may 1st

The road not taken, Robert Frost.

5.1.18| Daily Art


may 2nd

 

Violet wash.

5.2.18| Daily Art


may 5th

“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


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Doodling designs for you, coolpeppermint: blog, creative outlet, little corner of the Internet.

5.4.18| Daily Art


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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.

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5.7.18 | Daily Art

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5.8.18 & 5.9.18| Daily Art

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5.10.18| Daily Art

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5.11.18| Daily Art

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5.12.18| Daily Art

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5.13.18| Daily Art


Hiatus


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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, FebruaryMarch 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


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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


 

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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


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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


 

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Fluttering by

5.27.18 | Daily Art


painting galaxy fashion dress

A dress made of constellations!

5.29.18| Daily Art


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Roses.

5.30.18| Daily Art


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5.31.18 & 6.1.18| Daily Art

when we were younger

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“you know what i thought of the other day?
our childhoods are for our parents
they remember our first steps
they remember what we liked and what we didn’t like
they remember what we ate, what we didn’t eat
our childhoods
they’re their memories to have,
not ours
as you grow older
your life becomes yours
but when we were younger
it was once theirs.”

 

– april 23rd, 2015 | 4:08 pm

Something my best friend said to me a few years ago.

Art, Shells and Inner Worlds

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Even though I see drawing and photography as, well, mostly solitary pursuits, ironically they act as ways I can connect with others. Or–if connecting’s too strong a word–at least sparking conversations with strangers. On airplanes, in libraries, in coffeeshops, on piers, etc. Sometimes we’ll talk briefly for two minutes–oh, what’re you drawing? or, I take photographs, too–and other times, for several hours.

For a while I worked on a photography project called the 100 Strangers Project. I’d talk to strangers (something I often do anyways), photograph them, then write about their stories on my blog. I guess it was a way of recording the conversations I’d had with so many different people, people whose paths I’d likely never cross again. These conversations were sprinkled across cities, across the country. Usually we’d bond over something small, or something that we shared in common (or maybe we didn’t). The person was an avid traveler and had visited my home country; they liked video games, too, and recommended one I’d play years later; we shared the same taste in weird TV shows, and their favorite was one that’d soon become my own. And like the quote that “everyone you meet has something to teach you”, I’d always learn something new about the person.

I stopped working on the project a few months ago–I’m notoriously bad at finishing what I start. Writing the descriptions also felt–what’s the word?–contrived, and I felt self-conscious, and so I’d have all these portraits and stories but I’d be too afraid to write them down. I still talk to strangers; I don’t take as many pictures, but I remember the few strangers I wrote about quite vividly. I remember their faces, the spaces where we met, the point in our conversation where you could tell they felt passionately about xyz. And that’s what I’d write about. Some of them emailed me afterwards, or vice versa, to say hi or follow up, to send links or snippets from their book.

A poet whose name I forgot wrote about how, without our inner worlds, we are merely shells. And we all have inner worlds. Sometimes we just get so wrapped up in our own that we forget, or simply don’t engage with, those of others–particularly strangers. We do it all the time. Talking with them and hearing their stories reminds me to peer outside my turtlish shell from time to time.

Reflections in the Water

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Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results; Freud theorizes that we all harbor some childhood wound we’re all seeking to recreate. Mistake one, mistake two, mistake three, mistake four. But four wasn’t insanity. And four wasn’t an old wound. Four was, instead, ironically, cheesily, gradually then all at once, one of the best things to happen. A summery wish granted, a wintry curiosity piqued: reflections in the water (I did it again I did it again I did it again)