Friday, April 30, 2010

1.) Practice a lot

gonna just find pictures i like and try to draw them all evening

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

my new room is great

this midnight crew album rules so i listened to it while drawing some things that don't have anything to do with it

Saturday, April 24, 2010

the more you know

this guy has a box for a torso and his limbs are shaped in awkward ways that are physically uncomfortable for him but he's too busy doing demon science experiments to let it bother him

too much stagnancy

i almost forgot there about how the secret to not being depressed in the summer is to do fun stuff and accomplish the things i've been putting off

anyway i drew these

this guy is pretty sad about his finger i guess

another secret is to be a cyborg

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

dogs and post-apocalyptic mayors

andrew hussie's characters are really fun to draw, although next time i wanna play around with them a bit more


wv and serenity

Monday, April 19, 2010


I have this thing where if I alter my physical appearance in some noticeable way I feel like no one will take it seriously or something

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

old crow

he's old

winter is gone

time to have real fun

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Player Is Alive

a monologue comprised of various lines of The Player from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead strung together by a great deal of my own interpretation.

There is no meaning in any of this. To be cast upon this stage to suffer the same dreary life again and again. To spew the same supposed profundities, to meet the same artificial personalities, to meet the same demise, every single time. What is there that can excuse this absurdity? Nothing ever varies. Life is aimed towards the point where everyone who is marked for death, dies. The bad, unhappily, the good, unluckily. We're people, you see. There is no choice involved. Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusion.

However, there is one talent that remains worth cultivating despite this unambiguity of our ending. One ability that creates that circumstance where, seen at the right angle, there escapes that thin beam of light which cracks the shell of mortality, allowing us to suspend disbelief and experience life as though it were not a mere tragedy. I am referring, of course, to the knack we are given for extracting significance from melodrama; a significance which it does not, in fact, contain. This is important, of course. Life does not itself contain these truths we see in art. Truth is only that which is taken to be true. There is nothing behind it but corpses and cadence. You cannot pretend to have anything more than this, this is where we all are. We have all been marked for death.

However, this in no way impedes us from honouring those truths we see as fit for pursuing. In fact, this is necessary. This is key. This is the single assumption which makes our existence viable. That we can suspend our disbelief, that we can trust in love, in art, and in unconvincing deaths. This is the currency of living; it is how we exploit the talents that are given to us in order to find that thin beam of light. We must perform life. If there is nothing to it, we must perform something, and believe there is. Are all the problems and situations we present the same over all time, trivial, run meaningless through repetition? Yes. But our context for them is never exactly the same, and thus we are never the same. Different people, even if they are the same people, are our observers every time. They deserve our full abilities, every time.

However, this creation of something important, something that flies in the face of tragedy, is not a task we are able to do on our own. This creation is only one side of a coin, the coin whose wealth we gain when performing something that inspires meaning. The other side is the reception of this creation. To simply create, to perform into the thin, unpopulated air, to pour our hearts down bottomless wells, to strip our souls bare in front of uncomprehending birds, this does absolutely nothing. Because of this, we depend. Our entire, self-construed meaning depends that someone is watching. That another body with a beating heart and thinking mind like ours sees what we have done and in some way, whether in hate, in love, or indifference, responds to it, then we are validated. Then we have succeeded at something larger than our one death. Though death might catch everything in the end, our one death will no longer be enough to catch all of us, who we are, which has since been seeded into the heart of another. And this is a crack in the impenetrable shell that is our own mortality.

That is what it means to mock death. To invite it in, for all ages and occasions. We do not fear death. Only when we fail to create this collaboration, this transaction of performance to reception, is death a threat to what we are. Only then does death impose itself upon us with its obscenity, when we fail to honour this truth we have invented. Only this idea of truth can create an ambiguity in our situation in which we might be allowed to believe that we have overcome tragedy. Meaning exists only where we believe we see it. Our only choice is whether or not to seek it. We are the players. That’s enough.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

horo horo horo

sometimes i like to look at other drawings and play around with them and make them not as good

oh look its

more creative writing where my brain quixotically jumps from one topic to another in showcase of a typical attempt on my part to coherently formulate an idea.

I wandered outside again. I didn't have anywhere to go, and I liked it that way. I didn't want anywhere to go, I just wanted to be out there, walking. Going. I walked down a path by a field, and I looked into the field and it looked like the most inviting place in the world. I just wandered into it. Stood there, in the middle of a field. It was big and grassy and the air felt nice, and I just looked around, like I was lost and looking for my way, except I wasn't, I was just lost.

There were some seagulls in the field with me. They were the only other thing in that field. If other people walked by they'd wonder what that guy was doing just standing there in the field. They wouldn't wonder about the seagulls, what they were doing. Nobody wonders about the seagulls. Nobody stops a seagull and demands a motivation for being where they are. That isn't expected of them. Nobody thinks seagulls have motivations. Maybe they do, seagulls have lots of motivations that they're simply unable to express in any terms that we deem valid, comprehensible. And they just go off on their business, doing what they need to.

I continued on my way. Through a ditch with some wrapping paper in it. Then a parking lot. A big, empty parking lot. I wanted to sit down in it. Just plop myself down in the middle of this big expansive empty parking lot. There were people walking by, so I didn't. They'd wonder what the fuck that guy was doing sitting in a parking lot, and I'd have no answer because it was indeed a stupid thing to do. I had no interest in formulating an answer. I mean I probably could have if I'd needed too, but who wants to do that? Who wants to think up a reason they decided to sit down in a ridiculous place, all by themselves. Impulses don't work like that. Impulses don't say "hey you need to do this because X."

Fuck it. Fuck it, I'm going back to sit in it, right in the middle of it. Am I trying to prove something to myself?

Alright, I'm doing it. I've fulfilled this important urge to sit in a big ol' empty parking lot and listen to old-skool jungle music on my headphones. The air still feels nice. My cabin fever is receding. I'm not going to shut myself up any more. This is what happens. I can't have another summer of this. This is what I've done for the past two summers. These desperate grasps in the most absurd places. I just reach my hands out and clutch and there's still a bunch of air. Which is what I expected anyway. I know what kinds of things to do, and I guess the worry is that they won't be any different than the air? Or is the air somehow important? Is it somehow important that I know about all the air?

When I walked back home, when I was inside, I turned a corner than there where people and I'm sure I jumped noticeably. There were just suddenly people snapping me out of my head. This was a new development. There were never people before, this was never done where there might be people. People were the antithesis of reaching into nothingness out of an uncontrollable need to reach after not reaching enough.

These weren't even important people, or people I knew, these were just random people I incorporated into my thought process. It's not like they were trying to do anything to me. I took their presence, and did things to myself with it, turned some cogs. Situations come in all shapes, and I just keep applying them to whatever they look like they might fit into in order to try to build something. There's no blueprint, there's never any plans. I just build, and build. Throw me some parts, I'll build. Scrap? Worn down? Ill fitting? Build. I don't feel unhappy with that. I just need to fucking build.

j. bunyan was legit as hell

wendy says:
i really am impressed by what this guy can do
being simple without sacrificing quality shows incredible restraint and prudence
Ben says:
he wrote it in jail too
what a thug
he got thrown in jail for preaching without a license and when he got out he did it again so they through him in jail again so he wrote the pilgrim's progress
wendy says:
i wouldnt mess with that guy he was probably hard as fuck
carryin a flintlock piece all hangin out the carriage hollerin at chaste bitches
layin down fat stacks of bibles

Friday, April 2, 2010

big on drawing suns

this remains one of my favourites

a switch to writing, i guess

This is a story primarily composed in my head during an adventure I had after deciding I needed to piss somewhere that wasn't my own (or preferably any) bathroom.

I sat in my room making tiny screaming noises for an hour. Objections, mostly. I was trying to read a book; it was too much for me. The words meant so much and I wanted to mean as much as these words. All I could make were noises, grunts, interjections. Standalone sounds that carried nothing, and reached no one with that cargo. I'd been working hard for two weeks and suddenly there was nowhere left to move. There was just where I was with my life to sit and stare in the eye. To yell at. To make loud, incoherent objections to. I knew the next door would open soon enough and I'd be swept along my way, carrying stuff along, leaving stuff behind, moving along peacefully, if hurriedly. But there was this moment to deal with. A large imposing moment to just sit in a room with, to stare at. Of course, there were windows. I didn't have to wait in here for the door to open. I could wait out there. Would anything be out there? More moments, likely. Bad decisions that would take me to more rooms that kept me waiting. But I was tired of taking my room and dealing with it. So I climbed out.

I dragged myself through the window. "What's even out there that's so important?" I kept asking. "Anything! Come on," was the only reply, repeated no matter how strongly I demanded more details, more specifics. It was a void, it was a complete void and there was nowhere to draw any enthusiasm from, not even a stone to squeeze, but some manic click in my brain had made this the most important thing in the world, and I dropped out from the window and ran. I couldn't tell where the ground was, couldn't feel anything meeting my feet, I could just feel motion, motion was the only thing out here. There was a sense of motion in this void that, for all its discernable details, was not in that room. This was what I wanted, it was motion. Indiscriminate motion. If I was falling or running I didn't know, I could have learned how to fly and couldn't have told you the difference. It was a sense that I was not where I had been the moment before, regardless of whether those two places could be distinguished from each other.

I soon wanted to move more and more, my desire far exceeded my physical capabilities, distorted as they were in this void. My body began to convulse; limbs jerking into grotesque positions. I wanted to reshape myself, to have my physical shape climb around into something more expressive, something more free. I was losing control; vines were growing inside my body and moving it themselves in ways I could never, ways I only felt vague urges to move that I could never understand. Their grip tightened as I relaxed myself into their motions. They began to grip my brain, squeezing it as my body writhed, as though I was in agony, which I wouldn't have been able to tell; the part of my brain that would have told if I were in agony clicked off long ago. It squeezed my brain until I'd never be able to think again. Until I'd just move. In whatever manner was compelling.

I realized as my body twisted that I could now create freely. I could shape the void, it could be what I needed it to be. It was hills, and grass. Funny shaped hills, green, speckled with plants. My twitching slowed as I laid in the grass, just looking. Seeing everything, all of this formed around me to be perfect. There was something I needed back in that room, some reason I had needed to go on, to progress. Maybe I could find it here? Maybe it could be found wherever I wanted to look. This was a happier place to look, did that mean anything? There was just this calling, this compulsion to return. I would be late. I would miss everything. It would slip away while I thought of it from here. I had stepped out too far. It was a decision, between here and there. Things weren't even bad there, when it was moving. Here was for the standstills. Here the moment unravelled itself comfortably instead of staring me in the eye, glaring.

It was okay to go back, in the end. All I had to remember was to grab on to that motion when I stopped moving. To be ready for the decision to move again to what was needed.

my life as a ghost fanart


super witchy brothers

i thought wendy's drawings looked really fun and i wanted to try one so i did and then i put a star on top.