Two scamps, huddled and laughing at the edge of adulthood.
Ink drawing from photograph.
Currently rereading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn. I read it once before over a year ago and see that I have underlined more passages than I have done in any school text.
The passages that struck me then as particularly resonant are today even more so. I’m grateful to have made indications to such passages as I know they are they’re readily accessible to me whenever the need for sustenance arises.
On the pursuit of gaining an understanding of himself he says
I couldn’t afford to leave things hanging in suspense that way- the mystery was too intriguing. Even if I had to rub myself like a cat against every human being I encountered, I was going to get to the bottom of it. Rub long enough and hard enough and the spark will come
The painting is a new work in acrylic.
This is another of my work drawings. Over the years I have made several which I stored away as carefully as my more complete art works. To me they are evidence of a parallel me and also stand as stepping stones to the person I was becoming.
The nascent artist in me nudging away throwing out these fragmentary images. It provides a clue to to all the years of restless dissatisfaction that belonging to a desk invoked. Sending coded subconscious messages to myself.
It was a rebellion of sorts too. Acting out with line and colour if only to myself.
A sneering quest for meaning. I can see a spiky display of humour in their brevity.
Frivolous but important scraps documenting that life for me lay elsewhere.
A spontaneous drawing part playful doodle, part existential cris de couer. Falling is a deeply psychological fear I have. Palpable before conscious awareness. It comes from some primal place.
When thinking of falling I sense my brain is housed beneath my chest. That is where the knowledge and the reactions happen.
I see curtains blowing in a window many floors up in a high rise apartment building and I become transfixed by the almost hypnotic sensation of paralysing dread that it evokes in me.
In this fear of mine I see how closely tied the psychological is with the physical. The mind can perceive and analyse the connection but it is somehow apart from the phenomenon.
Sketches of Spain.
Postcards that got written only to languish on the fridge door
Awaiting what, divine intervention?
Full of best intentions until the steam runs out.
You’re thought of!
Pangs of distance muted in the echo chamber message side.
More fodder for the procrastinators volumes.
Wish you were here, you get the drift
Probably not or subconscious telepathy I underestimate.
Within the crypt laying undisturbed for centuries is an unknown force of immeasurable magnitude
Sealed off from the outer world to avoid contamination, it undergoes a mysterious process
no trace of it exists, at surface level all is discreet
Unknowingly waiting in dutiful living the world churns
a hollow is hollowed from beneath
quietly imperceptibly new formations and permutations evolve, dissolve in unobserved fractal dancing
to a droning hum of distant industry accompanied