This is an odd and rare mood. I’m listening to Taylor Swift right now. She’s on my list of guilty pleasures — along with The Hunger Games series and blasting What Makes You Beautiful by One Direction. Lol. Anyway, enough confessionals.
So I’ve deemed this piece finished. I wanted to polish it a little more, but I couldn’t touch it anymore. Friends have asked me that “how do you know when it’s done?” question and I hate answering the “you just know” line, but you do. You approach it and all of the sudden there is nothing else you can do.
Untitled. 2010-2012. India ink on canvas paper.
My current fixation of the week is mulling over this idea that looks and feels a lot like blurry mush. I’m not at all a writer, but it reminds me of this.
“I wish I could say everything there is to say in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.”
peeks into the sketchbook
My birthday is in two weeks. I almost forgot until a friend reminded me today. I’m not that good at making birthday plans, but I do have plenty of Type A friends who love me. Haha I’m kidding. I’m working on it though. I plan on people i’m thankful for and a cake. I’ve even thought of something to wish for this year. I just thought of it today. Aren’t you proud?
In other news, I’m making a trip to LA next weekend. I’m so excited. I’ve been terribly homesick — not for the city, but for people. Home is not a place. It’s still a question for me and only makes me think of this, “The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question ‘Whither?'”
Wait, here’s the whole thing:
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last long aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Have I posted that here before? At certain points of my year, that poem usually makes it up some where.
Anyway, have a lovely week. I’m still riding out my little adrenaline rush from watching The Avengers today. So. Freaking. Awesome.