hi dave
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hi dave
The above’s the new one, the bottom’s the old one. I changed her hair dye from white to blonde because I planned another character with dyed white hair and didn’t want to seem repetitive. I also added more punk elements to her clothes. I’m particularly proud of the studded artist gloves and the additional details to her black tattoos. I also switched up her eye shape.
There’s always a pull between a pencil and surface that you just can’t stop. I’ve been calling a lot of people recently and I’ve always noticed my need to fidget or be active when I’m on the phone. 9 times out of 10 I have some paper and a pencil or pen next to me and somehow my hand finds its way to drawing doodles and scribbles and then some. My favorite places are those with words and sentences and even whole essays splattered across its walls. From bathroom walls drenched in gossip columns to hidden graffiti under a strategically placed flyer, I love seeing the endless possibilities found in lines on surfaces.
As I’ve been thinking about writing this week, I’ve also been thinking about the beauty of handwriting. I’ve always been victim to those complaining about my handwriting (“Why do you write in cursive?”) while also graced by many a compliments (“You’re handwriting is so graceful!”). I always took these comments at face value and considered my handwriting as weird or abnormal. In my time thinking about writing as marks on a surface, I’ve been able to appreciate the oddities of letters and the uniqueness of one’s approach to these letter forms a lot more. Someone’s writing tells you so much about them, of course, but also how they approach communication. Sharp and quick lines show how emphasis on speed and necessity of no wasted time for that person, whereas thick and heavy curves can show how someone takes their time to leave an impact with their words. The ways we choose to communicate with each other whether it be verbally, physically, or something else entirely represents such a large part of our person. Like I always say, communication is key! The way you decide where and how and why you write connects you not only to those you’re writing for (yourself, a class, a stranger) but it’s a snapshot of that exact moment you chose to lay those lines on a page (or a wall or a board or even a window). As we live in a world where convenience is king, the time it takes to handwrite something says a lot about the way you chose to share with the world. I think we should encourage ourselves and others to write more. After all, the pen is mightier than most things really.
To take into the next week:
Ins: Waking up before dawn, kombucha (always), charcoal, blackberries, overnight oatmeal, productive meetings, mittens, brown sugar, scan beds, surrounding yourself with true friends (always).
Outs: Chapped lips, hair in the drain, glossy paper, scary mechanical noises, less than 7 hours of sleep, letting dry skin get drier, a lack of lamps.
My task for you all: Watch your hands as you write and draw and create. Notice how you grip the pencil, how the swoops of your Gs intersect with the crosses of your Ts. Watch someone else write. Find the wondrous quality of sharp against curve and how the blank space makes it all come together. And do a little bit of vandalism. Because why not?!
She used the word assure when she meant ensure. which is not a typo, it’s a language problem, which is a big deal! People type fast, whatever, it’s okay, but somebody wants to be a writer and they don’t understand the difference between assure and ensure?
Traverwood Library, 5:30PM, 1/14/2025
there are windows of opportunity and there are doors of regret, sometimes both, but never neither. you have blown into my life like a wayward leaf. where did you come from? darling, i was born in a hurricane. the windows are boarded but the door still swings off its hinges. you shake your head–whether in denial, or disbelief, or innocence, as if it would make a difference. Isabel Allende was right: two words is all it takes to change a person’s life. everyone could see the eyes of the puma soften as she steps towards him and takes his hand~
Back when I was in Livonia… the school district said kids can bring their phones to school and I remember being like “we’ve lost the war!”
Jerusalem Garden, 12:30PM, 2/1/2025
who gets to control the narrative? the caution tape flutters, a moth snared in a spiderweb. i am an ambulance chaser in every sense of the word. you tell me it is immoral, and i remind you that morality is a price to pay for your wellbeing. are we only in love because we love emergencies? sometimes we make bad decisions and they blossom into the undeserved fruits of our labor. other times they burrow into the belly, out of sight and out of mind. you are delicate in this life, just as i am delicate without you–mother nature plays such cruel tricks on her children! my stomach rumbles in agreement: there are no dormant volcanoes, only overdue ones.
…I didn’t even get my freaking cheese grits this morning!
Duderstadt Connector, 5:00PM, 2/4/2025
annoyance is worse than tragedy because it fools you into believing that your emotions are unjustified. we allow grief to permeate the barrier, unregulated, like a broken floodgate. this luxury does not extend to inconvenience without the eye of guilt, an ever-present watchman. the caterpillar and the butterfly, two sides of the same coin–what is a tragedy but an annoyance left unchecked? it is human nature to rot from the inside. even the phoenix dies from an ironclad heart: thinking of you turned me into ashes.
Dialogue: “Wow!!”
“Those are the hottest dogs I’ve ever seen!!”
“bro..”
I really really enjoy the dynamics between these two, I think they’re a really fun combo. The logistics of this one are a little odd, but its not like hot dogs are made of real dogs, I guess. My friend gave me the idea for this one while we were studying. (Good luck with any exams! Seems like everyone has a lot right now.)
In the morning before first light, they kneaded the covers with their legs, freeing themselves to roll onto the floor with gentle sureness. Eyes still closed, they rolled their body around on the cool wood, bending into joints, slip-sliding around, rolling over themselves, dancing horizontally until they felt stretched, released, ready to adapt and mold to whatever came their way. Then they finally blinked their eyes open, the rolling and stretching having worn the sleep away. They rose to their feet and walked downstairs. In the kitchen, they put on a pot of coffee and their favorite music. They hummed and half-danced until they could pour the black liquid into a mug, adding plenty of milk and some hot chocolate mix, because they damn well weren’t going to miss out on the sweetness. Cup in hand, still taking piping hot sips, they clumsily wrapped themselves in a thick blanket and stumbled down the stairs to the basement. By now, they could hear footsteps above them as the rest of the household started to stir. They knelt on concrete in front of a makeshift altar and just stared, breath suspended, cup clenched in hand. Then breath drew in ragged and ribs expanded again. Life filled body. Grief sighed out. Eyes glided and stopped on a photograph, then another, and another. Somehow each person on that altar was everywhere while simultaneously being wholly gone. A bow of the head. A lump in the throat. A zing of caffeine in the fingertips. And the day begins. They dress in their favorites because they can. In a bit their chosen family will pile into their living room to share food. And while they claim joy in sustenance, they will plan their survival, their safety, their freedom. And then they will take to the streets, maybe quietly, maybe screaming to be heard. Both can be dangerous. And after a day of reclaiming their place, and even if they lose another, even if they are bruised and bloodied, they will gather in yet another house to dance, talk, cry, and tell stories until their bodies tire out. More food will be shared. Maybe they’ll go home to their sanctuary. Maybe they’ll slide down and curl up where they are, in community, insisting on survival again.