Wtf. Ow.l.

Holy shit there's an owl on my sketchbook. What do I do now? I guess I could show you some of the stuff I put in it while I was in Toronto...

GOTRAIN. →
Gotrain go.
Sleep guy.
Sleep.
It was 9 in the morn but it does not matter what time it was. Sleep is obligatory in moving vehicles.

← I bought a ticket for Happy Feet, which was to start in an hour from when I procured the ticket so I went out into the lane and drew stuff. And yeah, I did like Happy Feet.

Remind me next time I'm in Toronto to actually be artistic. I got some good experiences for being on my lonesome in Toronto for the first time, but I really didn't take advantage of quality sketch time. Like... fuck. I've got nothing. Heh. Also remind me to get a scanner. Like. Fuck.

Passion + Toronto = Endorphin Release at Maximum Capacity!

It's about getting my priorities straight. For the past two years all I've done is used art as a vehicle for work and neglected that all too important aspect of it that has drawn me to it in the first place: passion. That pure, saturated feeling that springs from yearning to apply a tangible medium to a two dimensional surface to portray a message so powerful that people can't help but absorb themselves in it.

You know what I'm talking about... the desire to express or convey something that words or actions can't possibly capture. The sheer physicality of it: how the movement of your arm and fingers presses through the medium and gives you that metaphysical feeling of fulfillment. You know when you've accomplished your aim. The world suddenly falls in sync with your motive and shines with a light of understanding. Not only is the image complete, but you are too. Everything makes sense. You understand every aspect of the world and it understands you with the same empathy. Why? It's because you've captured that essence and fragment of life in the picture before you, still warm from the friction of your medium held so precisely between your fingers.

Who needs a lover when you have art? It's much more capable of satisfying me. Sure, it can disappoint you just like sex can. But it never gets tired. You're the one who always collapses after finishing a project. Art won't break your heart or hurt you like people can. It won't manipulate or use you. It'll always summon you back for more and you can’t help but answer its beckon call. That's what passion is and it's what I've been lacking. Well, I've found it again. And God... I can't wait for tomorrow.

I love the world so much. I can't wait to approach it with my newly awakened passion tomorrow. Here I come, Toronto!

The Mighty Wall

I did a quick, shitty sketch of a rat-cheetah for the Mighty Wall.


It's located in the illustration wing at Sheridan. Since my artistic perspective has been nearly... non-existent, I decided yesterday that I need to start challenging myself or I won't succeed as an artist. So, along with the monthly mighty wall (which I will put more effort into next month) I'm setting myself weekly challenges. Yeah, this is on top of school assignments.


It says: November 25 - December 2 -draw a maple leaf in as many different versions as you possibly can, using only graphite as your medium; add or remove elements of the leaf -utilize different artistic styles (impressionism, realism, abstraction, etc) to create a unique version or representation of the leaf.

So far I've drawn a realistic leaf. We'll see how it goes, but I'm resolved to stick to it. Each week I'll post the results here.

Subjective subtext

"Amen," he said after swiping his paw across his grizzled face.

The rain came. The dog moaned and rolled over. He walked away; each step resonated with the thick resolve of his promise. The woman moaned and rolled over. The rain came and it saturated them all in different ways.

Every inch of life cried in joyous sorrow. There was a tender quality in how his boots fell. There was an unnerving quality in the way the forest rendered him silent. Then the rain came over him. The woman was pale. The dog was flushed. The days progressed and an emotion rose to the surface but nobody reacted to it.

It is a hollow house with hollow occupants and the rain echoes in the emptiness. Amen.

I have a mouse but I'm home so it's okay

We played Frisbee in the rain on an empty street at night. We were both conscious of the mouse. It kept us from talking but it couldn't keep us from laughing. We threw to each other in the grass, through the gasoline-rainbow puddles, and between the tired trees. We laughed at the thunder and the mouse (even though the mouse wasn't funny at all). Then we perched on the curb and hugged our knees. We looked at each other and knew that with the rain in our eyes and the thunder in our heads we were home.

I'm home
you're home
we're home now.

Let me go, let me run; let me get away (for now... maybe for all time).

A Remembrance Day to Remember

My good friend Johnny took me into Toronto today. We ate brunch at Cora's, went shopping (I bought a beautiful coat and some art supplies), and then we went to the Toronto International Art Fair. We had a late supper and then Johnny dropped me back at the gotrain afterwhich I tiredly dragged my body back to residence. I'm pooped! It was a fantastic day though; if you're interested on checking it out, click on the pictures of Johnny and I making asses out of ourselves.

Eff.

I miss Saskatoon.


I've always appreciated our city. I never understood people's apathy regarding it. It's a comfortable place. Apparently being uncomfortable is more important to some. Well, for those that would criticize Saskatoon for the sake of criticizing it I'm bringing back nice fat acorns to huck at them. That's right. I'm coming back Christmas break ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

The shutters shuddered closed

"You need to see a counselor," she said, "you need to talk with someone." I was floored. I couldn't believe she was saying this to me. I couldn't react; she didn't give me time to because she was out the door with her lunch a minute after proclaiming all the reasons why. I sat looking as though I'd seen a wolf. I was still too stunned to know how I felt. A couple minutes later with bitter tea roiling in my stomach my mind reeled with frustration. She didn't know anything about my situation and for her to exclaim this two seconds before bolting was extremely discourteous. Who was she to decide what was right for me? She said she was concerned about me. I couldn't believe it.

I felt fine before, now I felt flawed. I didn't have problems with what I was doing to date, but now she made me feel like I was a drug-addict whore. How could she treat me so uncivilly: declaring this sanctimonious shit and promptly sauntering out the door? I didn't have time to try to reason or discuss with her what she thought was wrong. She just flung it all at me before she flung herself away. Were she someone I had been randomly matched up with through the residence staff, I wouldn't have been offended. But there she was, a good friend of mine that I'd known for years, looking down her nose at me with compassion dripping from her fraudulent eyes.

I can't believe this is happening to me.

baby showers

Lace-patterns of light and dark played over my face; I blinked, awake in the predawn quiet, nestled snugly in the white depths of my duvet. Beyond the window-pane a branch swayed in the wind, bumped against the rain-spattered glass; the leaves clinging there glistened in the harsh orange-yellow glare of the streetlight. Dan mumbled something into his pillow behind me, sighed in sleep. I hardly heard.

It was looking at me, the baby in the flowerpot, frozen within the walls of its wooden picture-frame on my bedside table. Anne Geddes was a master of her craft; the wide blue eyes peered into my own as if alive. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Unconsciously my right hand strayed to my swollen belly; something fluttered there and I shuddered, suddenly cold. I closed my eyes.

Wrong, all wrong.

I had a good life. I had a husband who loved me, a comely house in a decent neighborhood, a lime-green iMac in my home study where I could create freelance graphics in my bathrobe and run to the kitchen for tea.

I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.

Eventually the tears subsided; a minute, an hour, who knew. I turned my head towards my sleeping husband. His chest rose and fell, peaceful.
I lifted the feather quilt, hesitated, slid out from underneath it. My bare feet rested on the cold hardwood. I stood quietly and padded towards the door.
It hung half-open; I slipped out into the hall. Cold moonlight streamed in through the bay window, bathing the landing in white. I made my way to the top of the stairs and stopped, clutching at the banister. My gaze fell. The spiral staircase wound away out of sight.

How easy it would be.

I had always done what was safe, what was expected. I’d gone to university, earned good grades, met a boy, settled down. He was a good man; I’d thought I loved him. Maybe I did.

I was twenty-six years old and trapped, trapped in my own young life. I hadn’t seen the world, hadn’t seized the moment. Now it was gone, or would be soon.

My shadow on the wall was bulbous, distorted. My telltale belly swelled out beneath my ample breasts; my legs were like sticks, my shoulders strangely narrow. I looked back towards the stairs.

How easy it would be. My knuckles whitened.

“Trish?”

My head whipped around. Daniel was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, squinting groggily out at me in concern. “You okay?”

My grip on the banister loosened. “Yeah,” I said with a weak smile, turning back towards him and stepping away from the edge. “Just thirsty.”

Cordial Overture

How do you feel about the autumn wind, sealing the residual yogurt to the ceramic plate? Are you disdainful? Are you indifferent? Or are you too distracted by the refracted shadows, buoying and merging as the blinds shift in the minimal breeze? Do you taste the moldering foliage, yards below your screened window? Do your eyes sore at the light bouncing off of the van that grinds over gravel on a speed bump? How do you react to the bouquet of stiff maple leaves haphazardly thrust into the neck of an empty Sprite can? What do you say about the rubber snake with a compact disc covering its face?



How can someone possibly feel alone with so much love surrounding them?

Tiresome Consideration

Do you understand your indigestion? You're eating the leaves she stepped on. You swallowed the marks she made. You're trying to process the past, but it makes you double over. You're eating the indigestible; it's not your time! It's too early to dine!

Here the spider writhes and here the spider dies.