itesser ink: progress, uncensored

There is some kind of whispered magic going on today. I can smell it, but I can't taste it, like the flavorings in those fruit-waters Glaceau used to make (my favorite, Lemon-Cucumber, is long discontinued).

Like an egg, today's secrets are hidden beneath a bland exterior that is both stronger and weaker than it looks. And, my, are those insides nourishing.

I glow with the diffuse celebrations of tiny victories (like making the bed) and brilliant moments of beauty (like watching Reagan take his shirt off and do pull-ups).



I was worried I didn't have any old poems to post today that would fit my tone and mood (without requiring a ton of work), but then I found this one. It reminds me of my room in San Marocs, and how carefree and joyful the days I spent there were.

Courtship

I left your heart in san diego
then God fell in the sink
I listen to the sunset
and it tells me what to think
remind me not to wash this coat
before it starts to rain
and tell my mom to make that soup
then pour it down the drain

you go rolling in wild pastures
caught up in a great laugh
shake the trees and scold the moon
sayin' they watch you in the bath
I'll chase you round her silly world
and deeply through the night
but even if I catch you up
I can never do you right

Labels: happy, memories, mini world, poem, scannies

Skimming the internet for information about the internet makes my brain explode. It's the end of the year so there are posts all over the place recapping the developments of 2008 and predicting 2009. I wish I had two brains so I could write about books/blogs/my dream development and the pace of innovation at the same time, but unfortunately I don't have two brains. I'm not being academic in these musings, either. All opinions are informed purely by experience and reaction.

One thing that makes books a great medium is the fact that they have beginnings. Not just a point at which they come into being, but honest-to-goodness, ground floor beginnings. Most books have no prerequisites before you open the front cover, no backstory, no need for familiarity with a particular industry or topic of knowledge. Such things help in many non-fiction instances, but books have the ability to start laying a foundation from page one and build on that foundation as it progresses.

In comparison, periodicals (blogs as well as magazines and newspapers) don't have that luxury. Each member of the audience has a different level of understandings of the topic at hand. Every item in a periodical has to take into account that the audience contains first time readers and loyal, well-informed readers. Depending on substance and style, this diversity of readership can be an issue of varying size; the more continuity involved in a publication, the more glaring the ignorance of a new reader.

I'm most aware of my own ignorance when reading a blog in which the author talks about their own life, and when I'm reading a magazine that might have had more useful tips in the previous issue. (The "relevant tips" bit crosses over into blogs, too, though a different sort, and the internet has archiving and search function.) I wish these things were more organized and linear.

Instead of a personal chef or trainer or shopper, I want a personal information curator that I can point towards a blog or two or four and have a distilled bundle of knowledge returned to me. I'd give it a link to memoir blogs like Waiter Rant and get back the full evolution of the idea, the voice, and the person; all the developmental highlights. I'd point this curator to Get Rich Slowly or Lifehacker or Wired and get all the strong posts from the past that weren't obsolete three months later, and also integrated versions of posts on those familiar topics that keep coming up over and over again. Best possible world: the comments would also be mined for data that supports or refutes the original post.

I've heard that if you subscribe to Cook's Illustrated long enough the content starts to repeat itself. The same thing happens with children's magazines (at least Cook's probably puts everything into different words!), and I wouldn't be surprised if original advice in magazines targeted towards writers get rarer over time.

Wouldn't it be more efficient for the readers if there was a starting point for all these publications? Then it would be my own choice to skim or read every word, but at least if I was feeling clueless it would be my own fault for not absorbing information. And the redundancy factor would be reduced, too.

No, it's probably not practical, but it seems like it could make my life easier.

I think the next great innovation for the web should be a system available to netizens at large to create something like.... well, basically "This Week In Your Pregnancy" for any topic. Essentially a book in which a chapter is delivered each day or each week. I don't want to embargo information, just let the timing of each delivery be customized to each subscriber.

Right now I'm gearing up to write about my experiences of being left behind while Reagan's at boot camp. It'd be nice to get a daily or weekly email with ideas and support for my situation, through which I'm reminded of my husband's progress and given a slew of ideas for what to do when he graduates at appropriate times. Like an advent calendar. For military wives.

Yes, my other blogging project, The Beginning, Boot, and Beyond, aims to be five parts memoir/journal and two parts ideas/advice for navigating all the "firsts" of being married to someone in the armed forces. "Aims" is a bit of a lofty word considering I've only posted twice so far, and am still mixing the cement that will become the blog's foundation. Ultimately, I want it to be something that can easily be read from the beginning, as the progression of this story intrigues me. Of course, it is my life, so I am a bit biased.



Reagan is my muse. Especially while he's sleeping*. It gives me a chance to consider him in both concrete and abstract ways. His body is here, a tangible reminder of his reality and of our relationship, but he is still, his mind journeying in the dream world.

Of course, as soon as I write anything like that, he takes a noisy breath and shifts in his sleep to get more comfortable.

This poem, like Geography, comes from the weary moments between preparing for bed and actually climbing between the covers, when my mind, full from a day of gathering information, is at its limits. I originally wrote this one a number of weeks ago while he was still working his retail job.

Nightshift

Spooning we will slumber
yet I don't hurry towards that time
as sleeping will obscure
your reailty from mine.

Though dawn is nearly breaking
I press my cheek against your skin,
listen to your breathing
and your heart beating within.

I wonder what you're dreaming,
hope to make the good parts true.
I sink to sleep, reluctantly,
knowing I'll wake--in dark--alone.

---
* he might be better for poetic inspiration while he's asleep, but he's much more fun to hang out with while he's awake. :):) I'm going to ink a portion of that scannie (after I get a little rest) and prove it!

Labels: blogging, books, meta, poem, projects, scannies

What did you do?

Okay, I had time to do a lot more and got stuck in the intertubes instead, but both of those things took a considerable amount of time and energy.

The blog and the book are on the same topic: Year One. The blog (which I'll link to once there is more than one post) was a decision that took about 24 hours to reach, and I was lifted to it by the encouragement of some strangers. The book pitch was fully spur-of-the-moment when blog research dropped in my path a link to a literary agency. Not just the agency, but the form for submitting queries.

I'm glad I saved the text of my proposal. It has the potential to act as a guide for my Other Blogging Adventure.

--

Not getting enough sleep. I need a large bottle of CONCENTRATE, the product that has the ability to make anything more potent. Sleep. Orange Juice. Thoughts. Coffee. Poetry, maybe.

Hungover

your voice did echo
spilt words in my mind
of hours to come
and moments behind

that, having passed,
are nothing but warning
all is a day
and we are a morning

Yes. We needs it.

I want to etch that in the corner of a bold painting in sunset colors and a cliche, bereft figure or two. Something very 365.

Instead, I will take up my pen and hamoodle out some drawings while eating and con Reagan into scanning them for me. This note is entirely unnecessary because the lapse in time for you to go from here to the image below is a fraction, I say a fraction of what it takes me to make it happen. Appreciate it. (My goodness, the lack of sleep is making me punchy.)



ZOUNDS! that's not a scan!

Reagan went to bed and the scanner would awaken him. I draw, he shall scan, I then shall post anon.

*resets "days of non-goofy posts" counter to 0*

Labels: digital work, excuses, poem, projects

I wish I meant that title in more than a literal way. Only now, as I wind down for the day, do I think about the dreams I had last night.

I dreamed my Southern California town had an unnatural snowstorm, and I watched my world turn bleak colors and be draped in white.

Not in the most poetic mood ever, so here's something middling-new and very green. Perhaps one of those examples of bad poetry born out of strong feeling.

Grace

I wore her dress
on Saturday night
I hung it up Sunday
not sure things were right.
She whispered me stories,
I danced them away
She whispered me lies
I believed anyway.

And the songs that were sung
they were sung by a king
but the king had a secret
who envied his ring;
that ring was a symbol
over all of mankind.
This is the family
I left far behind.

Today was busy and thoughtful. I had melted cheese, was an accessory to a misdemeanor, and listened to a lot of NPR. I love NPR.

Most of the drawing I've done recently has been animals, so that will be the content of my posted sketches until Christmas, at least.

Labels: bunnies, dreams, poem, scannies

Warning: plate of beans ahead.

On the heels of yesterday's post about language not yet catching up with the experiences of the Internet, I'm taking a moment to look inward as I am wont to do after a period of not blogging, however short or long it may be.

As I was starting up the previous post with noise about status updating, I began pondering in the back of my mind what kind of blogger I am, how my style fits in with the "culture" of blogging, and what sort I might like to be.

While I post art, I'm not a sketch-blogger. Most art is vastly overshadowed by words. Words about what? My life, usually. My thought-life, to be specific, as my offline-life is a tad rusty these days (though not for long). I don't do very topical or news-related posts, nor am I at the deep end for any particular hobby, lifestyle, or what-have-you.

The reflective questions boil down to "If this wasn't my blog, would I read it?"

That raises the question "What kind of blogs do I read?". Primary answer right now is "not many". For all the RSS items I clear out these days, they either don't require reading or are saved in open tabs to be consumed at some proper future moment. I muchly enjoy blogs that have a personal mixture of diary, correspondence, and art.

Some periods of time I do a good job of performing the "would I read this?" test in mind as I write a post, other times, not so much. Perhaps that should be something I strive for in the future.

I'm calling this a plate of beans because whatever I decide doesn't truly matter. I'm keeping this blog for myself, and can't foresee this ever becoming a destination so popular that I where I care to cater to my readership. The goal, then, is to cater to the more demanding aspects of myself and try to please my harsh internal critic.

--

Today held the celebrations of my mom's birthday, my immediate family's Christmas, and the Winter Solstice. The only one it actually was was Solstice, which Reagan and I celebrate privately.

We're not pagan or druidic, but I, especially, like taking notice of the moment when the night is longest. Festivities involve cheese, fruit, something tasty to drink, and making a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor to feast by candle light. We use the time sans computer, tv, and other digital interferences to talk about everything and nothing. In the midst of worrying about family this and other family that, it's very nice to devote some quiet time to each other.

I took a moment to think about Hanukkah today, too, while setting fire to the wicks of pine and apple scented tealights.

Between the celebrations of Christmas and Solstice, Reagan and I went to the bookstore where I quickly spent my gift card on poetry books: The McSweeney's Book of Poets Picking Poets and The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I believe both will challenge me and give me a lot to think and write about in the coming months (which is a lot of why I didn't pick up a novel).

I hadn't heard of either book before today, and I haven't heard of most of the poets in either until today. With my limited experience with poetry, both points contribute to my interest in these volumes.

The bookstore trip also made me devastatingly interested in getting a e-Ink eReader. Technology. Wow.

Other, less amazing technology brings you a washed-out scan from my sketchbook, mostly of bunnies. These were practice for pencil sketches that Reagan turned into watercolors, which I turned into frame watercolors, given as gifts to my parents and my brother's family.



And last of all, a small stone of a poem devised as I was falling asleep last night. Oddly enough, it goes to answer the question posed in the title of this post. At least to a small degree.

Who Am I?

As I'm
a poet
my lines
should
be just
long enough to point.

That's your official poem.
Here's the collection of words inspired by writing it:

awake in the wee hours
just light enough to write
a burst of words on a post-it
(thankfully near by)
before more sleep

Merry Solstice. See you in the longer days.

Labels: books, holiday, memories, meta, poem, poetry, scannies, solstice

Day off, three ways. I used a photo I took when R and I were last at The Ranch. It was slightly blurry because there was low light and I don't have a tripod.


(inspired by Postal Poetry. I love this image and design.)


(inspired by this Color+Design post)


(inspired by Photoshop Disasters. Mmmm... clone stamp.)

Labels: digital work, excuses, linx, low hanging fruit, photos, poem, the ranch

I've been running a mad blue streak all day. All day being since I woke up at 4pm Tuesday. It's made me mostly-useless.

Oddly enough, useful/useless-ness is the topic that I found at the bottom of the slump, and through understanding my own need to be useful, I've begun to turn things around.

Not sure I can turn it far enough to be alert and talkative in 6 hours for my last scheduled visit to my mom's class, but we'll see. The first time I went I had been up the full night before, but I don't recall being under sustained emotional stress.

ENOUGH EMO.

Have some sketchy animals.



I posted new poetry yesterday, and if I really cared about pattern I'd post an old-but-updated one today. But I don't. I wrote this before going to bed last night.

Geography

If our bed was North America,
you'd be the Rocky Mountains
with a firm grasp on the
Mountain and Pacific time zones,
your head is pillowed
in the snows of the north,
your feet (always hot)
jut from the blanket's embrace.

I could lie in
the Great Plain states,
uncluttered, smooth, inviting,
or leave that vacant land between us,
nestling my body
in the Appalachians,
and dream the wall's a window,
and I'm gazing across the Pond.

Instead, I squeeze myself
onto California
(though covers don't reach)
curling against your slopes
with my back to the sea
and feel the gentle, lapping
waves of wind.

It needs some love, and (despite the title) I played it a little fast and loose with the geography. Poetic license, eh?

Labels: poem, scannies

1.
I finished Fahrenheit 451 a few days ago and haven't posted about it yet. Maybe that's for the best; a couple extra days gives me more time to turn it over in my mind.

It was never assigned reading in school, so for many years the bulk of my understanding of the book was "it's about burning books". Some time during my year in Savannah I read an article about Ray Bradbury which discussed, among other things, his take on F451. That take being that to him the book is more about technology's effect on humans, not burning books. After doing my own sit-down with it, I have to say that I don't see how anyone could say it is about book burning.

The main lesson I took from Fahrenheit 451 was the value of giving your brain time to idle. It's something I need to remind myself to do every so often. I struggle to get so many things absorbed, so many things done. It's easy for me to lose sight of the benefits of slowing down and daydreaming. With a sketchbook or notebook near by, of course, but in releasing myself from obligation to them I allow my mind to make new connections and go new places.


2.
In middle school, I think, we watched a video one day that touched me deeply. It told the story of a class of school children living on some gray, gloomy, and perpetually overcast planet. Only one girl has ever been on Earth, and she is the only one who has seen sunshine and all the wonderful things it does. The plot unfolds around rumors that there is going to be a little bit of sun on this rain-soaked planet.

I didn't know until a week ago that the short film was based on Bradbury's short story All Summer in a Day (full story text).

Even better (for my nostalgia), the short is on YouTube in three parts.

The story is more nihilistic than the video. Today I wonder for the first time if there's a tiny sliver of Plato's Cave in the story.


3.
I love Ray Bradbury's writing style so much it makes me want to scream sometimes. The stories are great, and well adapted to film, but his wordsmithing is incredibly in line with my own quirk. What gives it so much life, to me, is the aspects of metaphor and imagery that can't be translated to visual media. I have a list of (children's) stories I'd like to adapt into comics/graphic novels, and while I'd love to honor Bradbury's work in that way, so much of what makes it special to me would be lost. I'll illustrate it, though. I'll illustrate the heck out of it. :)

A couple examples from All Summer:

The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
...
It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring...
...
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran.

So much love for that. Bradbury's writing is an inspiration. Because he writes the way I think, it gives me confidence that I have the potential to be a good and successful writer.


4.
In closing, some of my favorite Bradbury quotes. I don't agree with him on a lot of topics beyond life, philosophy, and the arts, but sometimes those are enough.

All that stuff that's collected up in my head -- poetry and mythology and comic strips and science fiction magazines -- comes out in my stories. So you get to a certain age and you're like a pomegranate, you just burst. And the ideas spill out.

Bonus points for the mention of a pomegranate there. :)

First you jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.

is growing on me.

A new find:

I have two rules in life - to hell with it, whatever it is, and get your work done

And my most favorite of all, words I try to live by:

If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.

X.
That was fun. I should read more books so I can do it more often.

I'm going to do something scold-worthy, but Mr. Ray inspired me (guess how!), and I, personally, need it.

to hell with it (whatever it is)

.
looking over
creation
without
comprehension

.
when my face
was hidden,
insincere

.
screaming
screaming into
a favorite pillow

.
abruptly
shaken out of
deep meditation.

.
in the kitchen
waiting for tea
giving up

.
bawled through snot
and hot tears
against his chest

.
under my breath
a final
invisible
resolution

Aaaah.



(ooooo! ;D )

Labels: books, memories, mini world, poem, quotes, reading, scannies

If I can't manage to get this post to autosave, it may end up being my normal Saturday post (she says at 7am Sunday morning).

First I must pimp a minimal-ish site I found via MetaFilter Projects. ImgFave. ImgFave is responsible, directly, indirectly, or very roundabout-ly, for most other visual-based links in this post. coming soon to a post near this one. Posting the cool stuff after review would dilute both parts, so I'll hold off a bit longer.

While ImgFave is styled like other social image sharing sites (so I'm told), what I really like about it is the utter lack of "social" (see: minimal). It is linked to FriendFeed which I know nothing about, but the most interaction you ca have with another user on ImgFave is subscribing to their posts/adding them to your friends list. On Friends view you see only the favorite images of users you select, instead of the default public view where you see all faved images.

No social means no tagging of images, no talking about images, no commenting on images, no sending messages to other users. And I like it that way. ImgFave serves my needs of introducing me to interesting visuals. Besides the picture, each post includes a link to the page said picture was faved from, and a direct link to the image alone. My only complaint with the programming of the site is that the feed does not include those links to the image and the source, meaning I have to visit the image's post on ImgFave before I can see it full size or in it's natural environment.

The two things that would make my experience better: other users linking to higher quality images when they are available, and linking to the image in context whenever possible. For example, if this drawing of mine was faved from this url (http://www.itesser.com/updates/uploaded_images/cheetaline-777735.jpg) instead of this url (http://www.itesser.com/updates/2008/12/why-oh-why-are-cop-shows-so-pun.html), a user who comes across it would not be able to see more of my work.

I don't mean to apply this in a selfish SEE ME way, but from the side of the user who stumbles across the image. I often want to see more work from the artist or photographer who has been faved, and it's not always possible to track down the source if all I have is a direct link to blogger or flickr servers. Also, the above example does show the image as hosted on my domain (making it easy to find more of my work), but I'm somewhat of an exception. If I ran my blog through blogger, the image URL would be completely anonymous.

It is worth noting, though, that I dig that site because it feeds my creativity. I don't use it to share or store images as much as I use it to find them. I take away or learn something from almost every image I see, and I believe the time I take to study them contributes to my development as an artist.

But now let's talk about my development as a poet.

The base poem is a couple years old. It's hard for me to judge how well it works as a poem because Randy Newman's always singing it in my head, with a feel very similar to this song [youtube]

Parting Ways

Here's your wishes, all wrapped up
and tied with pretty string,
take 'em back to where you came from
and take all your girly things.
I'm all over and done with you now
pack your bags and let me be.
Dreams aren't like no shopping list
and I'm no grocery store, you see.

That day, through a window,
I saw a sorrow just my size
I was young and foolish
much too young to realize
that even if it fit me
if it fit me like a glove
it would give me too much wisdom
and drain my heart of all its love.

Maybe I gave you good times
maybe you gave me a little fun
But when you cry plenty tears for us both
I gotta stop what I begun.
I've been three kinds of crazy
six ways drunk and seven mad
but meeting you's the only
kind of sorry I've ever had.

That was one of the more intensive revamps I've done lately (while still keeping most of the original). Here are some more emo lines that were attached to it, but I don't know why:

All the words, like water, flow too fast
leave me like sand through a fist
but when I burn this notebook
only the paper will be missed.

Now to spend some time drawing. I don't want to do another digital art post.

There was some before, there will be some after (and you'll see that when I get a real scan of this), but I like the density of them nesting so well together.

Labels: linx, poem, poetry, webcam scan

I spent the first part of the day doing one kind of nothing, and the second part of the day doing another. Both of them online, and both of them totally worth it. Despite not being in a poetry-reading mood earlier today, I am now, after having written the following:

In The Empty Hours

I clutch the stubbornness
inside my chest
heft it in my hands
the immense weight
miracle of density
compacted hopes and
driftless dreams
migrated from imagination
doomed to sink
but stubborn, clinging
to my heart
like stalactites
stabbing as I feel
the edges of my stubbornness
its grooves and tumors
metastasized
to obligations
but also to desires
held in stasis as I
trace and squeeze
and curse and finally
meditate
on my stubbornness.

I really like it. (Stubbornly, perhaps.) Maybe I'll feel the same tomorrow, maybe not!

Today I want to set up a crafter's studio that runs like a gym, except instead of weights and treadmills, you pay membership to use space and sewing machines and paper cutters and printers and printmaking stuff*. Ceramics classes instead of cardio, selling specialty paper instead of specialty powders. And have a library of crafting books and magazines.

Another dream I had today was to spend my free 3 months next year focusing on writing (especially poetry) rather than drawing. One thing that keeps me from it, though, is that my husband doesn't get into poetry as much as I do. I'd rather reunite with him and have something I can show that he'll be as enthusiastic about as I am. Is that strange?

I currently have no plans to abandon poetry, just a firm desire to keep it in the Number-Under-Visual-Art spot. (Prose is under no such restriction.)

Dang. 7am. Spent a couple/few hours pushing pixels around and watching Kojak. Still life painting of some things on my desk, tried out a shading method Reagan works with sometimes.



I realize that the background might not make sense (I didn't do a meticulous job), so here's a cell-pic of the set-up. Bluetooth is a beautiful thing.

*and light boxes. and a photo studio. and a darkroom. and a few computers. and light tables. and drafting tables. and spinning wheels. and sergers. and long-arm staplers.

similar things are being done in other places! They're making it work!
IPRC
esty labs
Radius Studio
Stumptown Art Sudio
... but some are less "open house" than others.

and kilns. and field trips. and dressforms. and copiers. and typewriters. and every tool imaginable. and a kitchen. and KNOWLEDGE. and jars and jars and jars of buttons, beads, and ribbons... i should stop thinking about this...

Labels: digital paint, plans, poem, poetry, still life

Three down, one to go. Next week is my last chance to be in the classroom with my mom's students, teaching drawing. Usually I have thirty minutes, but today I only had 20 due to some sort of clerical error.

I'm slightly disappointed in today's experience because the kids didn't get to draw much. The lesson was on drawing heads and faces. The bulk of it was demonstrating four main points:

+ Circle for the skull
+ Angular line for the jaw
+ Equator of the circle for eyes/ears
+ Longitudinal line for nose-direction and symmetry

... then having each kid come up to the whiteboard and identify those things. They traced those key parts on an image projected onto up the board.

Another fun moment was having them feel the spherical shapes of their heads, and how the jawbone connects to the cranium under the ear. Other than the drawing on the board, they didn't get a chance to practice what I was trying to teach.

The rest of the day was a stressful disappointment, except for spending a few minutes with my dad. He's having cataract surgery tomorrow. I've talked to him more in the past 2 days than in the previous couple months. He's the silent type. :)

So some drawing:



And an old-ish poem. Appropriate because I wrote it on an early date with Reagan under the influence of Strongbow, and tonight we had Guinness with our Lilo and Stitch. And I'm sleepy.

Preparing for Sleep


We reach through the bottle and into the past
wagering how long the feeling will last.
Cold comes to batter the bones of my keep
but the soul is warm, the roots are deep.

I love the simplicity of it. Remind me to tell you about Bradbury tomorrow.

Labels: drawing class, mini world, poem, scannies

When it was time for urgency
I did not act accordingly
Now it's time to say goodnight
but still I'm here and still I write

Tomorrow is my next-to-last session with the drawing kids. After Reagan and I came home from our evening out, I didn't start putting together the pamphlet quickly enough (although I knew what my plan was), and now I'm more than an hour late for bed (though hardly tired).

HOT DAMN

Next week we'll do perspective! If I go Wednesday or Thursday, they'll have gingerbread houses to draw. Rock on.

Another good day, though not productive as I'd like it to be. Too much time spent daydreaming about possibilities outside my control.

The poem today's offering is based on was written in high school, and I was so incredibly proud of it. It was one of mine that made it into the school's literary magazine. I remember we had a hard time laying out that page because the poem is a diptych... or whatever poetry word there is for two columns of poem side by side.

Recall

She says, "Broken."
Then after a pause

asks me what
I remember.


She says, "Red,"
and waits

for me to say
if, behind my
veiled eyes,
I see the autumn
forest, or that
violated house
that used to be
a rosy home.


"Yes," I say,
noting the color
inside my eyelids.

... and more drawings. Today I did better at doodling in a bookstore cafe. Probably because I never want to spend money at Borders, but I'm always anxious to browse at B&N.

Labels: drawing class, excitement, memories, mini world, poem, scannies

When I have my own place, I'm totally going to make myself a bear footstool.

Also, my first (practically) free issue of GOOD Magazine showed up today. I payed cover price a while ago and it didn't live up to my high expectations. Some of the research was shallow and the graphics misleading. But with the pay-what-you-want thing they have going on, you can get a year subscription for a dollar. I got my year subscription for a dollar. If I was flush with cash, I'd give more, but I'm not. I haven't read it yet, though.

I stayed up till 7am (or was it 8?) yesterday, and slept off and on till after 4pm. The block of sleep was interrupted with answering text messages, canceling plans, reading Farenheight 451 and checking headphone reviews for people not-at-computers. One person.

Inconsistent internet service kept my browsing experience from being fluid and transparent (when the tools give you trouble...). Lacking the fortitude to draw without TV in the background (that right there is a dangerous realization), I've spent a lot of today reading and closing the 120+ tabs that I've got open. And writing poetry.

Also related to inconsistent internet service, it gives me pause with the plan to store poetry in GoogleDocs for it's access-anywhere and tagging features. (Inconsistent internet came up in a recent discussion of paperless medical offices, but that's a different issue.) It would be easier for me to give up access-anywhere (and commit to backing up my harddrive) if there was an elegant way to tag files in OS X 10.4. (I realize it's redundant to say X 10, but X.4 doesn't properly convey the situation.) Maybe I should ask for an upgrade to the latest version of my OS for Christmas.

My paper journal is getting distractingly full. The handbound scrap-paper book with a burlap cover and zombie-bandage tie has become so integral to my days and thoughts that it will be difficult to replace. I don't know what I'll do when I'm out of space. Obviously hold onto it and read the full thing once, and bits and pieces from time to time, but I no longer have an epic stash of novelty, scratch, and found papers to build a new journal from. I think I'll do shorter (3 signature) cloth-bound books with interesting fabrics for the (less ghetto) covers until I can collect enough found papers to do another tome.

Thank you for listening, blog.

A poem I wrestled with today. It's another new one. I wrote it long-hand, and the page is a delightful mess of stricken words. The first draft rhymed, then I tried to make it not-rhyme, but couldn't find the rhythm in that version.

From Too Far

Do you see my whole devotion,
long-suffering, and patient care
or do you sense a latent crazy
with desperate and wild stare?

Are you reading it a danger
when I profess my loyalty?
Do you think I paint delusion
over empty, harsh reality?

I thought I found a stable bond
within my constant adoration;
I'm sending you this love, again,
open to interpretation.

I'm excited about tomorrow's poem. I cross my fingers that the enthusiasm will hold out.

Drawing that was wrestled with yesterday:

Labels: excuses, plans, poem, projects, scannies

Wow, that took a lot longer than I expected. And I only did half. The new half!

I fail and half no title. If I got the whole image done, I wouldn't feel the need to have a title, but... I didn't. Give this a Tom Waits a la Black Rider vibe. ;)

come into the theater
try out our dream machine
we open the doors
to hobos and whores
even you will be more than you seem



the rest of the text, in case you can't read my handwriting:

gamblers on the mezzanine,
dancers in the pit
spin the wheel
wishes made real
black-dog-dare the devil's wit

I'm not amazingly pleased with the art, but I'm glad I gave the idea a shot. Learning! Learning! Rah! Rah! Rah!

I really need to go to bed.

Labels: digital work, poem

I'm not feeling like myself, but instead of the normal formula of not feeling like myself (which, I suppose, is more like the part-time version of feeling like myself), it's an off-brand concoction, unfamiliar. Compressed and oppressed in so many cliche ways. Time ripples through my days in an illusory way; I have no sense of chrono-depth perception, and can't tell how fast I travel.

C'est la vie.

I feel like I got something done today, but for the life of me can't tell you what. Three hours were spent at an acquaintance's home playing board games. That was fun, but not what I'm thinking of.

Rare Moment Alone

carpet grinds into elbows
teeth grind each other flat
sweaty palms hold
heavy head

drip, the faucet
chirp, the black-headed grosbeak
drone of trucks
matching drone of fans

cramped and bloodless legs
hunched, unsanctioned lotus
an unexpected
meditation

Cheetalope:



Cribbed off photos more than usual.

I prefer the (mental) image of deer antlers, but it doesn't especially fit the setting. And they're harder to draw. :X

Labels: blarg, cheetalope, digital work, poem

DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT.

Newlywed

i.
So deeply wanting
this moment
--captured--
to go perfectly
on and on.

Take hold of this memory,
cast it into columns
and save it for
decades to come.


ii.
Home from the grocery store we begin working,
sharing the stove and the sink.
I hand you an open bottle of Guinness.
We pause twice--in tandem--to drink.

I at my chopping block, you at your oven,
ready our meals for the next week.
Between drying the spinach and baking potatoes,
sniffs and spoons of the dishes, we sneak.

Past midnight in the kitchen, tangling hands
as we stand hip to hip to stir the curry.
Soon we'll seal the food and scrub clean the counters
but I, for one, am in no hurry.

May I repeat "first draft"?

I'm still not sure what's going on within part 2. Or part one, for that matter. Mismatched shoes. I am childishly fond of having a meta section and a concrete details section. Drrrrrraaaafft!

--

Earlier today I got super lucky and accidentally bought The Muppets: A Green and Red Christmas album on mp3 for $0.99. I think the offer expired soon after that. I'm not usually one for Christmas music, but it's the MUPPETS.

I said I bought it "accidentally"... When Amazon says "Buy this with 1-Click!(r)", they are not kidding about the "one click" part. Learning experience!

--

Deciding the Next Decider: The 2008 Presidential Race in Rhyme. Need I say more?

Calvin Trillin (author) on The Daily Show and NPR.

--

Reagan and I hit a budget goal today, so we promptly went out and spent a bunch of money so we can hit that goal again next paycheck.

. . .

That amuses me. (And isn't really true.)

Observing the people in a grocery store after 10pm in the suburbs is fun, especially the couples. A lady and her man-friend who walked in behind us were joking around about one of them being a hooker and what different pay rates entitles the buyer to. "Seventy dollars for special requests" is a phrase that sticks out in my memory.

After coming home, Reagan and I talked for a while before even getting out of the car, then brought our bounty inside and spent a couple hours in the kitchen together, something that doesn't happen often enough. The poem is pretty accurate. I wrote bits and pieces in my head while washing the rice, then other bits and pieces while cleaning up the rice cooker. Sharing the kitchen--any kitchen--with him is the kind of memory most precious to me. I want to affix as many as I can as many ways as I can. Poetry is just one I hadn't gotten around to yet.

When it's really late and R and I are out of our room, it almost feels like we have the house to ourselves.

Labels: memories, mini world, poem, scannies

Today started alright, if a bit late. I had the best intentions of making up for yesterday's epic headache with an early post, some writing, a good bout of drawing, and other productive things.

I ended up spending most of the day chasing my tail. But did do token amounts of writing and drawing.

Here's somethings for yesterday:

Tasteless

Living in a half-baked world
built of gingerbread,
a person only ever finds
an oven for a bed.

Hospitals are bakeries,
they have drives for dough;
when you loose your cookie head,
that is where to go.

Sugar, spice, molasses
make both girls and boys,
frosting is their clothing,
candies are their toys.

We're having Gramps for supper,
'cause Grandma was for tea,
and if you are not tasteful,
that's immortality!

Gingerbread is my traditional holiday treat, passed down from my mother. When I was a kid she had these parties where she would make a gingerbread house for each kid in the neighborhood. All the kids would come over to our house with bags of candy and we'd make a day of decorating them. Now she makes a gingerbread house for each student in her class, and in the good years I mail boxes of cookies to friends. I wrote a storytelling game about gingerbread men, too.



For today, I offer poetry and image combined into one. Pushed some digital paint around with my beloved Kojak for company.

Labels: digital paint, excuses, memories, mini world, poem, scannies

It's been a long day. It started early with a nice breakfast of eggs, toast, and tea with my husband, even though he's not feeling amazing.

Session four of talking to kids about drawing went pretty well. The mass of the class has been weeded down to six or so girls. While I'm sad that I failed to engage the ones who aren't showing up any more, short sessions mean that I have to give a targeted lesson, which has a narrow scope of interest. If you're not interested in learning anatomy, there's not much I can do.

Hm. Focus on the good things. To go along with the torso references I had printed in the handouts that I whipped up last night, I projected a few on the whiteboard and had a few of them step up and practice locating the skull, ribcage, and shoulder line of the references by tracing them on the whiteboard. There was also a cool moment of teaching how the collarbone indicates what someone's shoulders are doing.

The biggest struggle is getting them to find the sweet spot of sketching fast to achieve line control and drawing slow to achieve line accuracy.

I always feel like I'm drawing poorly around them. My demo drawings are usually done while I'm talking and also working fast because time is so limited. But I feel like they're awful and don't properly illustrate what I'm trying to convey. BLEH.

Got home, tried to restart my day by doing some reading that I hoped would turn into a nap. It didn't, but I found the passage of past continuous that I've been waiting for.

Waiting is the wrong word. It implies that I needed or expected it to happen, neither of which are true. Even if the whole book had passed without something like this particular scene occurring, I wouldn't count it as a waste of time. Shabtai's style is, without a doubt, an acquired taste. I'm glad I've acquired it, but even without me adapting to his rambling style, I would have seen the scene of Israel and his roommate's lady friend throwing a knife at the wooden board as beautiful. It is at risk of falling into my own personal trope of "every emotion leads to sex", and also does nothing to buck the trend of nobody in the book being both happy and faithful, but I still enjoyed it. After reading the passage once, I immediately thought "this needs to be a poem" and wrote down the concept and the page number on a sticky note.

Maybe I should have taken a stab at it then. I'm sure not in the mood now. But I give this rhyme some effort and time...

what moves?


Outside my window
small ones dwell
between the leaves
and in the well.

Sometimes they dance
while I do sleep;
more oft in dreams
I hear them weep.

They curse the caging
garden wall
each time winds bring
the wild's call.

I mourn with them:
I have roots, too,
but I can hide
from freedom's view.

There, I found the energy to double the size! And I avoided referring to the sky as blue! Twice the victory.

Between reading my book and reaching this point of stretching my brain, I discovered another season of CSI:NY on Netflix, sorted a couple thousand files, and eked out some pages of drawing in my sketchbook, including prelim doodles for one of those opportunities I've been considering.

This is not those doodles (but the bird in the upper right is one of my favorite things right now):



Oh, that reminds me to share this mind-blowing-ly bizarre music video.

Labels: drawing class, mini world, poem, scannies

Today was very stressful. Except for that part where I was running errands alone for a few hours. That was only slightly stressful. (The errand-running wasn't stressful, my overall level of anxiety was just lower.)

I have zero confidence in the classroom. But I'm going back anyways, at least tomorrow. =\

In a strange way, if I had made up my mind on what to teach three hours earlier, or six hours earlier, or one hour earlier than I did, it would not have lowered my stress level. The only reason I'll be able to sleep is because I ran out of seconds to second guess.

Now look at photographs (scans) of the good old days...




And listen to music of the good old times...

Not exactly feel-good poetry today, but the music it was written to [youtube] makes me feel good, in a cathartic, melancholy kind of way. Don't watch the video. It's really creepy (huge eyes on real people) and is not at all what I imagine listening to the song.

The Longest Night

I think of the date we never took,
the time we never went to France.
The day was hot
but night came quickly;
the sun spied us sitting together
and could not set fast enough.
He pulled the warmth down into the sea.

You saw my sweater,
offered to hold it.
I wanted to be so immodest.
I wanted my shivers to draw you closer,
my sweater forgotten.
But I wrapped myself to stay warm.

It was the longest night.

I remember the cafe we dined in
and the story I told you there
Both were tinged with longing for the Old World.

The walls were painted with nostalgia
and I saw the matron
standing by the door
Lost in thought, lost in memories
lost memories.
Her hair looked like and exhausted sunrise,
the sunrise in my story.

I spun a tale about a place I'd never been
but we both longed for.
Your eyes, your smile
took us to the castles, courtyards, queens.
The danger, the intrigue,
the gardens with tame swans.

I said words
you gave them light.
Our soup grew cold.

It was the longest night.

*marks it as "revisit more"*

Labels: drawing class, excuses, mini world, poem, scannies

Great day of drawing today. It's about all I did for six or seven hours. The rest of my time was spent in a haze, trying to recover from the mental exertion of drawing for such a prolonged period of time. I'm sadly out of practice with the marathons.

Here's one page hot off the scanner:

A Public Service Announcement

When the world sends a message
it will use a postage stamp
and deliver through the mail,
unless you are a tramp
avoiding the whole system,
in which case it sends a fax.
But when the world sends a message
it's not important, so relax!

A few awkward lines directly from my period of demi-absurdism.

Labels: mini world, poem, scannies

This is the last thing I must do today, and there's no particular reason I can't do it now.



Drawing has been really hard today. Sometimes reaching it involves pushing through a wall of stress, but today getting to that place wasn't good enough to dissolve the tension. And ugly output didn't help either. I'm taking the rest of the night off and taking tomorrow to be a day to really sink into my sketchbook and work some kinks out. I'm actually looking forward to it.

The list of things to read won't get any smaller, but it's not so important. They'll still be there Wednesday.

Stress Fracture

This is me
taking my time
This is me
changing my mind
This is me
closing my eyes
This is me
have no surprise.

Self barricaded
against the riot sound
floors and doors and windows
busting open all around
I cannot stop the menace
keep the howling wolves at bay
I won't ever buckle under
but I will run and run and run away

Another old one with some minor tweaks. Like using scotch tape on a broken window mirror. I wish I could imagine a worthy application for these emotive snapshots. All that comes to mind is storyboarding a wordless comic to go underneath, depicting some scenario that would justify this particular brand of melodrama.

Labels: poem, poetry, scannies

Hm, I need to use that title sometime. *makes note that turns into a long detour*

I mentioned IndieFeed a week ago, but today Scott Woods gave my ears a transfusion, so I'd like to give a link-out to the former's feature of the latter that went out today.

The poem being performed at a link from that link is called "Queen Takes Black Knight". It weaves a solid story at the beginning, but what really made an impression was the imagery at the end. Carefully chosen words move the piece from the details of here and now to ideas tinged with fairy tale and archetype, while keeping it grounded.

I may be trading one vice for another when I let my flickr trawling fall to the wayside and subscribe to a dozen more podcasts, but at least when I listen to podcasts I'm free to draw. There's little else I can do! Podcasts and drawing are a good match. Let's wrap up this post so I can get back to it.

Observing

Sometimes in life
my pulse slows

It happened before
and now again
the familiar sensation

my pulse slows
the branch snaps
I carve too deep
more strong, more steady, more slow

I find my robes
layers of comfort
smelling of beast and death
of instinct, survival
and ancestor memories

satisfied, sleepy
nod to the fire
my pulse slows
slows

slows

This has 0% content in common with the poem I picked earlier today. The poem I picked out, one of the earliest I considered salvageable, was a lot worse than I expected once I got it to my workspace. I liked the opening lines and the theme of November being a transitional month, but it was really a shoddy application of language.

"Observing" is brand new, inspired by the inner mood that led me to pick out "A Lady's Song" (the poem you do not see). If I did it right, I shouldn't need to say that inner mood includes things like a heavy sleepiness, being full of tea, and bundled against the relative chill outside.

Labels: poem, poetry, scannies

Oddly enough, today ends on a note much more familiar than I have hummed in a week or more. (Drawing!)

On the topic of positive thinking (or not doing so intentionally, and still having things to smile about), two opportunities have come my way in the last two days. One is short term and you'll hear about that next week. One is longer term and more tentative. The latter involves trying my hand at screenprinting. Two exciting projects I don't want to jinx.

Here is a brief photo essay about the 30 hours I was gone. A few more in the Flickr set










In the interest of keeping things chronological, in this gap of time I wrote today's poem.

Foraging

Merlot in hand
I stumble
into the rain-soaked grove
guided in circles
by birdsong

I marvel
at fading remnants
of the citrus crop

when high heels
betray me
mud on flannel pants
chilly earth to skin
I abandon
my search for yesterday's
memories

I follow the rooster back
to pick up
where last night left off

Some commentary below




More here at Flickr

The above poem is a high context daydream based on reality. Odd relationship with linebreaks in this one. I wish I could end that one line with "yesterday" and somehow indicate the possessive right before "memories". Or is that trite? What keeps me from shortening it to merely "yesterday" is sentimental attachment to the context that inspired the poem.

Last of all, a good old fashioned scannie:

Labels: excitement, mini world, photos, poem, projects, scannies, thanksgiving, the ranch, trips

You see, this post was written and put up about 12 hours late, and this post (the one you're reading now) was written directly after that and will be posted 12 hours later (if the post-scheduling feature goes well).

Normally this space is used to ramble about something on my mind, or the events of the past day. All I could write about Wednesday's events thus far is the stress of needing to get a bunch of things done and wanting to drive down to San Diego as soon as possible. Although taking time to write on any theme right now would be counter-productive.

Nightcap

The ice is in the freezer,
The rum is in the car,
But I'm here with you, baby,
I don't wanna go far.
Your sweet kiss so exciting,
Never flat or stale.
I never want to leave
My dearest ginger ale.

The silly poems are most likely to come out right the first time around, I think. While I probably wrote that while alone in my San Marcos room, it reminds me of something that happened with Reagan, probably within weeks of penning that poem.

He lived in a rather rural area in San Diego county and the most nearby place we could go to get food and hang out was an Indian casino/hotel/resort. We liked that it was open all hours of the night because sometimes I got out of work at 11pm and had to drive nearly an hour to his house.

One day before we were officially dating we bought Thai iced teas at a noodle shop in the casino, and I realized that I had a big bottle of rum in the trunk of my car. We walked out to the parking garage, topped our drinks off with rum, then wandered around the casino for a few hours, slightly tipsy. Sitting on the wet grass by the abandoned pool and talking about life, the universe, and everything is one of my favorite memories from that period of time.

Here, a 10-minute digital speed painting (along side reference photo). Amy took it on a recent trip to Italy. Probably one of my favorites of the 600 pics she and Kazu brought back.



Alright! Should be back to regular late-night posting on Thursday. Lots to catch up on now, and there will be even more then!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Labels: memories, poem, poetry, speed painting

There is no particularly good reason that I've taken so long to do a make-up post this morning. I've been up for at least three hours. I think I'll blame it on staggered muti-tasking.

Posting didn't happen last night because I've been falling asleep unexpectedly early. Perhaps all the sleep lost when I had my cold is catching up with me.

Last night Reagan and I spent some time together at the bookstore. It was almost like a real date. We shared coffee and a brownie, talked about drawing, did sketching from life. Two things I did on my own: look for a recipe for martini cookies and read Poetry East. (No luck with the cookie recipe.)

But the literary magazine was something of a revelation to me. I liked a lot of what I read (flipping through at random), and didn't get annoyed or sick of it before it was time to leave. Granted, it might have only been twenty minutes at the outside, but it was still an experience that made me want to sit down with a notebook and really study the things I enjoyed, making note of the imaginative devices and phrases.

Don't tell Reagan, but when we came home and watched the last bit of No Country For Old Men, I dozed off. Fortunately it's on the Netflix website.

I thought that after a nap I'd be able to get up and do some writing and/or drawing, but that didn't happen. Here are the two very last un-posted scans I have.




And something appropriate for yesterday:

April, 2006

one way ticket to love
the blood through my heart
only has one way to flow
when you look at me
only one place for me to go
I drop everything
and I cry
and I sing
and I buy
my one way ticket to love

Labels: excuses, movie, poem, poetry, snooze sketch

No! Now I want to go back to drawing!

While I didn't pull out any of my workbooks today, I moved closer to being back in the swing of things and moving beyond the comfortable internet triangle of LiveJournal, gMail, and Twitter.

My burgeoning affection for One Night Stanzas encouraged me to visit the site directly and peek at updates before my official post-sickinesss reading of it through my feed reader. (The official reading is when I study a post and make notes about how it influences and inspires me.)

In that cursory reading, I noticed that the most recent featured poet, Simon Freedman (link might be broken?), said in his featured poet interview that he has been writing since February of 2008. He's collected a surprising (to me) number of publications since then and made me think about the beginnings of my own writing. I didn't do it for competitive comparison, of course, just to practice how I'll answer the question when the time comes.

I think maybe this month of revising and reposting archaic works of mine is an attempt to give a concise answer to "when did you start?". I remember writing poetry as long ago as 7th grade (1997), but it was obviously dreck by my current sensibilities. Taking time now, at the beginning of this new attempt at poetry, to revitalize old scraps that have some value to them, is my way of tying up loose ends. By renovating the relics, putting a more mature eye to them, I say "Now is a new age, and you are part of my now."

This isn't simply a matter of spring cleaning and deciding what to keep, what to put in deep storage, and what to sell at the yard sale. I'm coming back to an abandoned home and seeing what can be salvaged after the war, the flood, and the animals that came through and nibbled on things.

Here's something that didn't break down too much. Didn't have too much time to break down. If I ever become a singer/songwriter, this will be among the first songs I work on. In 3/4 time. (First two thirds are revised, last third is all new.)

Today's Kiss-on-the-Wind

It's six in the morning, it's cold and it's raining
I don't want to get up for work or for school.
I reach for my laptop, it needs no explaining
the blogs, the news, and sweet email from you

You've got a star in my gmail inbox
shining away on my internet view
you bring a light to dark, empty hours
days are so long but your words pull me through

Stuck between overdrive and out-of-gas stalling
I stumble around and it's not even noon
The phone is ringing, I ignore the calling
I re-read your letter, can't write back too soon.

You've put a star in my gmail inbox
twinkling there on my internet screen
you bring a light to dark, empty hours
in morning and evening and times in between

Get home late, it's dark out, my dinner is cold
Been days since I've seen you, feels like a full year
Although reading your words will never gets old,
You whispering to me's what I want to hear

You've lit a star in my gmail inbox
It's all I can see on that internet site
you bring a light to dark, empty hours
And If you come over we'll stay up all night!

:)
All of these are at least a month old, but they'll have to do. Hopefully tomorrow will be an amazingly productive day so I can get posts for Wednesday and maybe Thursday ready ahead of time. We'll be out of town visiting family and I won't be taking my laptop.

Labels: mbear, poem, poetry, projects, snooze sketch

I can't tell where I am relative to the beginning or end of my day. Since my last post I...

+ Spent a hectic 30 minutes with about 10 kids from my mom's class. Description and after-thoughts posted here.

+ Thought some about my plan of attack for Thursday's class, crashed around 3pm and got 6 hours of sleep

+ Woke up, spent some time online to catch up with friends I hadn't talked to for a couple days

+ Wrote the first half of the drawing advice I'll be including in the sketchbooks. Devised a drawing-as-your-personal-visual-language metaphor.

+ Tried to sleep more, watched Red Dwarf. o.O

+ Slept about 20 minutes. Woke up and wrote the second half of the drawing advice, including 67 ideas of things to draw.

+ Snuggled with Reagan, dozed more. I feel like I haven't spent time with my husband for ages.

+ Sketched and brushed the dog.

+ Got ready for day 2! (printed things out, gathered more of my sketchbooks for show and tell, etc)

I'm currently remote posting from my dad's computer downstairs to avoid bothering Reagan with my light and noise. He'll be sleeping another 4 hours.

... I just realized that this remote posting means no scans to upload. I'll include some with today's debriefing, as I'm sure I'll want to talk about it and be more alert than I was yesterday.

Busyness and being out of sorts means I haven't gotten time with my poetry. So here's something from high school I really don't understand:

Forgiveness

It doesn't matter the style of your clothes,
Only who designed them, and that they are your own.

It doesn't matter where you got them from,
Only where you wear them and why you go those places.

It doesn't matter how many places you go,
Only that you try not to get stains on yourself.

It doesn't matter that you did mess up those clothes,
Only that you notice and try your hardest to clean them soon.

It doesn't matter where you go to clean you clothes,
Only that you do it yourself and use lots of bleach.

What was I thinking? I think it fits with a quote I found on a sticky note while gathering sketchbooks. If you can't convince them, confuse them. -- Harry Truman I love quotations that encourage absurdity.

To make up for that lameness, I urge you to go listen to Danny Sherrard perform his poem "We Are Prometheus" over at IndieFeed. I caught the podcast of it recently and it blew me away. Incredibly inspiring and incredibly humbling.

I'm off to teach children about drawing! :D

Labels: drawing class, excitement, poem, poetry

Early last week I talked to my mom about doing a drawing workshop for her class, then spent several hours writing an outline. I didn't hear back, so I reminded her a few days ago and she told me it had slipped her mind and she needed to clear it with her principal. Yesterday around 11pm my mom asks if I can come do my first session today or Thursday.

We start discussing the bigger and smaller questions I have about what to expect, and what schedules look like daily, weekly, and for the rest of the year. As I haven't been around 5th grade kids.... since I was in elementary school... I decide that I should use one session to acclimate myself, like leaving a new fish in the bag when you first put it in the aquarium so the water temperatures can equalize. Except me and 11 year olds.

As there's no school next week (they get a long Thanksgiving holiday!) it means two full weeks between the first session and the second. With each session only being 30 minutes, my expectations of retention are low.

Short story long, I decided to use both Wednesday and Thursday to make my impression. That left me with under 12 hours to prepare and made my classroom debut coincide with my projected bedtime. Hijinx ensue.

In reality it was more like, stress induced mood-swings ensued.

I spent much of the first 8 hours trying to calm down and concoct an elegant plan to both pitch my workshop to the class at large in the 10 minutes before their lunch break and fill the 30 minutes of time we'd have for chatting.

Needless to say, there have been few opportunities in my day to do my own drawing, polish up today's poem, or write tomorrow's hand out. Well, after some yoga and a shower, I will be drawing before going to school.

Despite how neurotic I feel right now, I think this project is going to be good for me over the next few weeks.



With poem posting, I wanted to start with revising the old stuff that had potential or posting stuff that induced painful laughter. But, again, today didn't go as planned, so here's some ars poetica I meant to post when my site was down. It probably needs a little more tweaking. It belongs to a hypothetical chapbook called "A Self-Aware Collection". This all happened before I learned about the term "ars poetica".


Sentience

I start blank
with no dimension
then a dot
and then a line
a paragraph
a rounded thought
then I expand
to take up time

But that is
my last performance
can't turn a phrase
save plane or face
no back up trick
no animation
a fritter of time
a filling of space

No annotations
lines and arrows
strings to make me
dance and sing
I lack allusions
uncolored, unshaded
Do I lose depth
with history?

Labels: drawing class, excitement, mini world, poem, projects, scannies