rub ons

Going with the Flow, Sketches, 2017, India ink on cotton rag papers. A handmade sketchbook with room to grow, it is stuffed with ink wash paintings/drawings, rubbings, and it’s one big happy mess of me having a good time!

Okay…so I’ve had a dry spell art-making-wise (the hand dirty-ing kind, digital photos, I might get my knees muddy kneeling to get a shot of an itty-bitty flower or a mushroom.) Then I made the sketchbook for the Sketchbook Project, which was what I totally needed to get me back on track! Now the creative spigots have opened and I made a shit ton of art in three days…Friday, Saturday, Sunday. All India ink on various cotton rag paper scraps that I’ve saved over the years. (All of the bits that I tore off to make my ragged edges I have saved for paper making at a later date.) My hands were black most of the time, and I still have some remains embedded in my skin where my hands are so beat up and dry, the shit is going to have to wear off…so, I was wicked happy and in the zone…

More photos to come, I’m not done documenting it all…or making more!

rinse the blood off my space toga

“Can I see? Wait, there’s no shafts? it just.. grows in two colours?”
“Er. Not exactly.”
“The other humans’ plumage isn’t near this bright. Are you a born leader?”
“HAH. no.”
“It signifies caste, then? Or a mating display?!”
“Not even close. I went out and paid an artisan to apply a harsh chemical to rip out my natural colouration, then apply this artificial one.”
“That sounds.. unpleasant.”
“Yeah it burned like a <<dog?>>, my scalp was tender for days after.”
“If it doesn’t create any advantages, what’s the point?”
“Ah, it just looks <<rutting>> <<cold>>. What other reason do we need?”
“..humans are weird. .. .. .. do you think it would work on feathers?”

Cute Philosophy Asks! <3

Diogenes - Would you rather be accused of public masturbation or live in a barrel? On a more serious note, do you know anything about the Cynics beyond a fondness for Diogenes because he’s zany?
Plato - Do you really, genuinely believe that because triangles exist, there is necessarily a perfect example of their kind from which all examples are derived? Follow up question, are you stupid?
Kant - Are you more of an inquiring murderer or a would-let-the-inquiring-murderer-kill-your-mate kinda person?
Marx - Do you think liberals are people? Follow up question, if not, what’ll you use them for when historic inevitability comes to pass?
Hegel - Is there a point in writing philosophy if no one understands you? Follow up question, why answer the first? No one’s gonna understand anyway ya dingaling.
Marcus Aurelius - Have you ever had fun ever at all ever?
Wittgenstein - Ever rubbed one out to a number? If not, liar.
Ayn Rand - Post a selfie like everyone knows you want to you narcissistic piece of shit.
Nietzsche - So, you a sexist? Or do you really just think you’re all that?
Confucius - Name exactly one (1) other philosopher outside the western tradition.
Jung - How much do you love pseudoscience?
Freud - Why do you love pseudoscience so much?
Spinoza - How’s it feel always playing second fiddle to people with less exciting opinions than you?
Dawkins - If you had to go without doritos or mountain dew, which?
Hume - Ever get bored of pretending you don’t think that being a skeptic makes you super smart?

2

This is for @alittlestardustcaught and @beyondmythought-s cause nice people deserve nice things. Part of Nice things project.


It is a queer thing having legs and walking among men. Beneath the ocean, within the oceans arms arms, everything is cool. The sun’s touch is distant and ligter than a whisper, but here there is only heat.  Heat during the days and heat during the nights and heat when Jon touches her.

The heat that Jon creates is the only heat that she desires or misses when she returns back to the oceans embrace. Jon is the only thing she ever misses now days,  he and their babes. The feeling doesn’t even go away when she returns to the ocean’s cool embrace and her home of salt. She doesn’t ever truly feel connected or anchored until she us once more in his arms. It scares her sometimes, the sharpness of her yearning and her fierce desire for him. It is as if he’s cast some strange and ghastly enchantment over her, as if she’s not truly herself until they are reunited.
 She is a daughter of Neptune, beloved and precious. She’s not meant for this, this mothering and loving and existing in a world dictated by reason and sense. She is meant for the froth of sea in her mouth and salt and rage. She is meant for dark caves and mystery and strange songs. She always seems to forget this every time she lays eyes on him. Jon’s eyes and smiles and his person are familiar and beloved to her.  His eyes are the grey of a mournful sea, gentle and sad and kind all at once. All her fears seem to fade away and fall into a hush when she looks at him or feels the weight of his hand upon at her or at the face of his quiet love, passionate, scorching and gentle all at once. It is the gentle lilt of his words and his bare skin against her, it is all this and more that loosens the tight fist of fear around her lungs. It is all this and more that makes her forget.

It is impossible to forget for long though. She sees how time slowly creeps upon them. Jon had promised her that they had all the time they wanted when she had asked what time truly was. She knows that is not true now. She understands the invisible force and it’s imminent power now. She knows this and still she wants all of time for her and Jon. She wants the end of the world and a beginning of another one. She wants the burn of stars. She wants the raging seas. She wants to see all of this with Jon but that is not the way of man. Men do not live for long. She is a child of the sea but it is truly mankind that are the children. Their paths and lives extend as far as the gentle tide on sand.

That is the truth of it and she knows that and yet her heart aches when she sees how grey is interspersed with the dark of his hair and beard. There are lines on his face that were never previously there and at times he seems so much smaller while the babes that she nursed are bigger than even her. It hurts to see him edging closer and closer into a journey that she will not be able to follow him into. She had gone into their marriage thinking that they had more than enough time. She had been wrong.  It was not enough. She wants more. More smiles and more laughter. More nights of heat and flushed bare skin. More babes. More of him.

She wonders what she will do when Jon makes his last voyage into a place made to be forever unknowable and unreachable. She wonders if she will spend the rest of her years, lost in her grief or if she will rage. Rage at the sea and world both. The answer comes as quickly and easily as it always does. She will set sail on all Seven of the unknown and strange seas. She will set sail in the heavens and stars if must be. She won’t stop until she is reunited with him and if death was barred from her, then she wouldn’t stop breaking and recreating time and changing it to her rules until all had heard her pleas and given her eternity with Jon. She would not let even death split her and Jon.