Step by step we inch closer to the end. And in the moment our feet reach the precipitous we must make a decision: to return to what was or to accept what may be.

I cannot believe that the world I live in now is the end.

So ‘forth, pilgrim, forth.. / here is but wilderness–know thy country’

From my journal today (quoted section is from my favorite poem by Chaucer, “Truth”)

Because I don’t truly want to do Inktober, but I do want to start a new practice for myself, I thought I’d mention that each day for (at least) October I will be reading a poem/series of poems each day and writing at least one of my own. I will be keeping them all in a specific journal/sketchbook for it because I mourn not reading poetry/written works much this past year.

I think this will allow me my literary motivation, instill a great habit (as I love poetry and have a million poetry books but can never justify reading them all at once for some reason) and, thus, I thought this was a great opportunity for it!

I shall be keeping track of my progress here (I might scan in the poem each day or at the very least write down what I come up with.) Some might be more like drabbles than poems, but I figure, it is fair game for me so long as I am writing and reading.

I will be copying down the poems I read each day that really strike a cord with me to, one, continue to practice of keeping track of what inspires me on any given day in my sketchbook, as well as the fact that I am a quote fiend and enjoy keeping quotes I love/want to remember in a book.

I know this will be a rewarding experience for me as someone who, as much as I am a visual lover, tend to express myself more through literature, hence why my major was via literature than art.


There is always something about brooding clouds that I have found elegant and somehow sorrowful, as though clouds are much like people–there is only so much one can take before all the tears are released and they come pouring back down onto the earth.

It isn’t a very good analogy, but the point still stands that drawing clouds has become a new favorite thing to do, even if half my drawings have no reason to have clouds–they tend to gain them anyways. There is elegance and haphazardness. There is softness and there is substance. Oddly enough, I feel my clouds are better fit to match my aesthetics than my people, at times, as though the figure is so big a focus, that it is hard to read anything other than figure.

Let us hope I can start to bring this type of essence into my people. And let’s hope that the fun with random cloudage doesn’t stop either. I’m having way too much fun to stop.


Your eyes are as vast as seas. If this then is the case, how can I feel so claustrophobic in those fields of prairie green? The grass rustles just outside the open foggy window and you say it is just like shuffling feet across the pavement.

I remember this piece as somehow a personal reflection more than anything else, almost as vividly now as I did then.

I remember, one day, while sitting on a bench by myself that when the wind hits the grass it almost sounds like someone shuffling their feet, as though their feet have never truly left the ground, and that there are hundreds of men and women going nowhere fast, but somehow trudging by slowly anyways.

I never thought it was a crazy epiphany, but at the same time, it became almost fascinating to imagine that each blade of grass that dances to the wind is a symphony of lives being remembered as the wind touches the grass, and the grass remembering the thousands of feet that have touched it–paying homage to each one in song, even if it is the song of shuffling feet, never really finding a place to go but down.

If any of you have time–I suggest sitting and listening to the grass during windy days–it is amazing how the sound travels, and how it makes you wonder about odd things at random hours of the day.

But maybe that’s just me.

06.11.12 Just a Mound of Vivid Nostalgia

A click that echoes too much like doom,
it comes from outside my room this snapping.
If it were not so clear and bold, I would have thought it a dream.
Just a shadow to keep me from my slumber.
Yet this nightmare does not leave when the sun rises,
it does not shudder from the calling dawn.
There are no words to describe this suffocation.
I’m being smothered by the anxiety of it all.

Quit bringing back my memories.
Quit taking me to my past.
Quit pretending you know who I am,
because you’ll find I do not like to be cornered.

Digging up old poems/writings makes me long to do this again. Four years is too long; but sometimes the fear of failure is a very powerful thing.

Again I return to this place with apologies and desires for change, for reform. I believe, in many ways, I feel as though not having interesting things to talk about makes blogs rather shallow things, but maybe, instead of thinking of everything I say as some sort of metaphor, or magnum opus, that I start to actually simply allow all that I ponder to simply be allowed to exist. After all, this is a blog, and a blog about art, writing, and my involvement in both.

In a way, I have been busy living my life through the motions that I have not yet stopped for a long time to simply be–to post because it was an outlet and an expression, rather than an obligation for attention, for views, or simply for being heard.

It is a fine balance: blogging. You want to be interesting, to gain attention, yet at the same time you want to be seen as you are–and to pray your opinion has some value in the long run.

And, in a way, I want to change that mindset of myself. I want these to be like private glimpses of the soul, of a way to explore the hardships, the joys, the trials, the fondest of memories in words. Who cares if I am brilliant? Who cares if I am loud, or if a post is not a five-thousand word count (which is bound to happen in my case being the wordy woman I am).

Especially now that I have attached this to my art website, I feel, in some respects, that it is all the more important to allow myself freedom.

To be honest, I don’t even know where to start with that. Maybe I’ll start by sometimes posting the writing that comes randomly into my head. Emotions caught on the wind and brought into me, somehow finding a nest in my bosom.

Maybe that is not interesting, maybe it is not clever: but it is me, and I believe, in the end, that is all I can be, and ever shall be.