I think I get ‘some type of way’ as a nod to the ineffable, as a way of expressing the inexpressibility of one’s own emotions…but in a question? It just makes me feel I am lacking some essential piece of information.
The binary risks of opening up – acceptance vs. rejection.
Part of a three-piece drawing series. I’ve donated the originals to The Art of Giving, Nobody Gets Left Behind (29th March - 5th April at Blackbox, Publika, Malaysia), an exhibition fund-raiser to help ensure SEED can maintain its center for the homeless/marginalized of Kuala Lumpur. SEED is accepting monetary and supply donations, and will be having an auction night on 4th April where the artworks along with clothes and other items will be up for bidding.
“And the land he will come to is unknown–as is, once he disembarks, the land from which he comes. He has his truth and his homeland only in that fruitless expanse between two countries that cannot belong to him.” - from Madness and Civilization by Michel Foucault. #sketchbook #painting #illustration #art #afraidofwords #artistsontumblr #watercolor #ink #moon #sea #madness
From the sketchbook. I drew this sea foam self-portrait last night. Something to fill the gaps between preliminary studies and to-do’s. I’ve been collecting supplies for new works while keeping busy with tasks and deadlines. It’ll be a while till I can start the new pieces.
So I haven’t painted all week and I always get a bit weird when this happens. Sketchbook work has been keeping me grounded, sort of.
I made a list of things to write about and I haven’t gotten around to any of it. I’ve been all torn-up about this – the need to write versus hesitation to start a piece. I mean like, to stop struggling with anxieties until they capsize me and land on my head so heavily that I get nothing done. To ignore trains of thoughts clashing with each other because it’s all part of the process, isn’t it, it’s all necessary noise. So just write, right.
Today I ended a failed draft with, “What I’m trying to say isn’t what I’m writing.”
limbs move slowly, knowing there’s no other way to move. heavy airs dampen ability to respond, and there is not enough blue when i look outside to calm these aches.
there is not enough blue when i look outside to let the tiredness overtake me, belly where it belongs – pressing against the floor or bed. i want the promise of being taken care of by surrendering to whatever is happening inside me, but –.
now when i see someone with a red nose i feel sad. so, so sad.
it is so hard to rest here. my eyes, they’re dry and sore from all the salt kept secret inside. i don’t know how to get on with things like i’m not waddling through air made of thick jelly.
i blame this arbitrary slowness on my body’s irrational preparation for a winter – cold to wrap me in four layers of clothing before venturing out the door, chill to remind me where all my bones are, grey skies to parallel with the greys inside, the need to cup and touch all the warm things around me, darker nights for easy sleep. i’ve never missed winter as much as i do now.
there is no winter here. this place will never work that way.
before this i could have sworn i was getting used to these hours and monotony, but then i started to think i’m waking up in the wrong bedroom again.
after recalculating the years and events to wear off the shock from waking up today, i thought, how long more will i be jet lagged from the past?
i will always be jet lagged from the past.
and from all the loss and losing that brought me back here.