happiness syrups

there’s a sweet liminal space
before spring–after winter–
where summer swells in anticipation
and the air grows thick on groggy mornings

i hear the heathers
click-clacking down the high school
halls, veronica sawyer’s curling
accent. corn nuts.

these are lazy long summers
before summers were long and lazy
before nights swelled with cicadas
at the very edge of chorus: nature’s orchestra

this space is fleeting and periodic–
where happiness syrups
time lags
and days expand

Lights Under My Eyes

81

two twenty. AM. 2:21. AM. Two 21. AM.
why am I so restless?
coffee. wheat thins. crumbs. caffeine. caf

–feine. feign. feigning
kindness. questions I have for
insomnia:

are you neurological? genetic? psychological?
physical? are you the thoughts churning through my head rapid-pace
without regard for gravity, space, time?

are you
the 100 grams of caffeine laced in my vanilla-creme 2-sugar-packed
coffee branching through my veins?

are you concern?
are you anticipation?
are you planning? are you planning something? are you so busy planning something

you
can’t
sleep?

the irony of sleeplessness lies in the
heaviness of my lids, of my eyes–I just
thought they’d have been lighter, with everything lit up under my eyes

lit up under my eyes lit up under my
eyes crumbs all over my keyboard
cover lit up under my eyes

Disjointed

76

In between ceramic tiles, I empathize with Murakami’s characters (disjointed, numb). I’m reminded of how disconnected I’d once felt, as if this was myself but somehow it wasn’t. I tossed and turned, ran through storms, writhed in bed. Wondered: and so how did she, this other self, feel? Because I felt nothing.

Between shallow breaths I remind myself to scale down. So I scale down. In a giant desert, I am box-like. I am a face of a salt crystal on a pink salt mountain. And collectively we are all salt grains tumbling through something vast and strange and inexplicable.

July 2016

Windows

eye watercolor painting realism realistic black and white beauty

“I like you; your eyes are full of language.”

[Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]”

Visual Journal

sketch.jpg

In a crafty fury I’ve gone out and bought a new sketchbook, postcard book and scrapbook materials. I’ve been crafting like a wild crafts storm, spending hours pasting, trimming, doodling, painting, etc. Here’s a glimpse at something I digitally sketched today.

Sketchbook

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Found some digital copies of my 2013-2014 sketchbook for art class the other day; we’d be assigned to research different artists who’d inspired us, then creatively combine findings, thoughts, and critiques on their works.I’d write about Warhol, Otero, and Picasso, jumping from one art form to another–one week I’d cover satirical pop art, then self-portrait photography, then Cubist paintings:

Subconscious Dialogue

img_5648

A friend from high school commented on this image with a really beautiful analysis:

The dimmed out face in a way feels bolder than the bolder face. Feels like it’s striking you even though it’s so subtle.  I interpreted it as someones subconscious talking to their conscious self. Really love this piece. It makes me so curious as to what goes inside your head.

A part of me melted when I read that. For a second I remembered how in IB Art she was always offering these wildly eloquent critiques (Every two weeks we’d throw up our pieces on the board and critique other people’s works) She would always come up with these incredible and thoughtful analyses, like, well, the one above.

Subconsciouses. Consciouses. Freudian-type stuff. The latent thoughts you wake up with, the decisions you didn’t realize you’d already made.

Sometimes when we’re analyzing works in class, I wonder how much of the artist’s decisions were intentional. The extent to which we’re superimposing our own views and expectations on their work. So much of art’s symbolic and representational, supposedly imbued with so much meaning. But maybe we’re drawing from ourselves more than we are from the artist, calling it theirs when really it’s ours.