hello arts ink. I have taken over…this is my first post ever….watch out….
my comic is about things i find on the ground on campus bc i always feel sad bc they’re left behind.

pic of smashed ted the bear below…

hello arts ink. I have taken over…this is my first post ever….watch out….
my comic is about things i find on the ground on campus bc i always feel sad bc they’re left behind.
pic of smashed ted the bear below…
Hummingbird
what must it be like to know someone?
not their favorite color or where they went to high school or where they want to retire or how they like their scrambled eggs on any given Sunday
but the texture of their skin
the patterns on their fingertips
born in the womb of their mother
the webbing and weaving
are they high-strung or laid back?
with skin that sags around soft eyes
and peach fuzz
molded lips that taste of
dark-roasted coffee
and the beating in their chest like a hummingbird
when I press my ribs against theirs, my hip bone against theirs
we make a sculpture that breathes and pours
with sweat and some saccharine
pleasure in the moment
a pulsing and pressure
the roughness of legs
shaved two days ago
the bowing of their side and the curve of their arms
bracing and borrowing glances
eyes closed, mouth wide
taking honeysuckle and morning dew
speaking only of cardamom and chamomile
whispering of rapture
to be enchanted in a body
to feel, to know
The Archway
my great-grandmother had a house
she’s gone
but the house breathes
its strange breaths
strange faces
strange furniture
strange footsteps
imprinted by foreign feet
I remember the house
and it’s frightening to think that someday I won’t
that nobody will
that the memory will die with me
you’re getting so tall
she said before we left
beneath the archway in her living room
neither she nor I will ever stand beneath it
again, I am frightened that the memories
won’t be memories anymore
not that they will be conflagration-charred
cataclysmically-consumed
made holed and holy by a marksman’s arsenal
but that they will dry up and fade
wet footprints on concrete
during the fourth of July
when the weather was warm as the parade marched by
I sat inside a home I might never see
again, I am frightened
that anyone and everything is only mine
for a little while
that life is only for a little while
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?!
To You, Everything
Blackberry hair
a raven nestled
inside your tired eyes
lips like butterflies
in bloom
butterflies don’t bloom
but those in my chest do
watching you
from a field of flowers
sunflowers at your breast
beating beside a candied heart
that I wish I have given to you
I wish I had given you
Everything
Ruler
your posture needs
bone cracking
joint yanking
vertebrate tugging
fixing
nobody will take you
your words
seriously
without a ruler
against your spine
become a tower
burn the bridge
extend your praise to the heavens
for height and highness
stretch past self-obsession
and paused glances
breathe
in the world you call yours