I came back from class tonight, and was starving. So I decided to whip up some walnut choclate chip cookies. Baking feels quietly cathartic. I found a really good recipe on http://www.allrecipes.com. A really excellent site.

I've been studying grammar all day and my brain feels nerdy and fried. We weren't taught grammar in school, so studying it now makes me feel slightly dyslexic. I'm starting a few teaching couses, so this new direction's going to be interesting.

Last night I dreamt I was back in Korea teaching English. All my other artist friends had decided to return to at the same time. It was great to be runited and to see where everyone was at. One massive subconscious reunion. Pretty surreal. My dreams are becoming vivid and detailed. I should start recording them.

Anyway to alleviate the dull pain grammar has carved inside my brain, I'm once again burning the midnight oil baking and doodling. It seems to have restored a bit of humanity.

Some experiments with drawing and digital media. There's probably an easier way of doing things that I haven't yet discovered.

This scene is inspired from a chapter in "Kafka on the Shore". I'm hoping to do a whole series of illustrations from my faveorite novels.

Distance grows, making things unreachable. Sometimes unbearable.
Connections crumble. Smiles swallowed hungrily by time.
Hard to pretend as though nothing matters.

My head is so full of noise. I was asked to give a speech at my old school to year 12 students for their farewell dinner. I walked in there very nervous, because it was dawning on me what a formal event this was. I wasn't so confident now that my speech would be suitable... but I thought, things in there needed to be said.

It was like going back through time in a way. It reminded me of my year 12 dinner, so long ago now. And it made me realise how differently I saw myself back then and also how I pictured the world. Rose coloured glasses I guess.

I finally gave the speech, and I could hear the slight waver in my voice. But I had to keep pushing through. I know somethings that were there didn't want to be heard, but I knew I had to say them.

Looking back, I think I would have liked to have had my old english teachers there. They really did impart something on me that's been long lasting. A gift that they didn't even realise they were giving.

So a toast to them tonight.

I've picked up "Fires" by Raymond Carver from the library. His writing is hard to describe. I'm not sure if I prefer his poems to his short stories. Sometimes his stories have the rhythm of poetry.
Anyway, I came across this poem that made me smile.


YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
beacuase it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and you heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.

I shouldn't have taken that nap in the arvo. Now I'm wide awake watching a bad leslie nelson comedy on late night tv. Ugh...

Something about spring air makes me dig out all those nasty RnB tracks. Yeah!!

Skeet, skeet, skeet...

I'm feeling a little crook. I made Nigella Lawson's lemon chicken. Recipe called for too much white wine for my liver to handle.
I've been watching "To Kill a Mockingbird". I think I've seen bits of it when I was growing up, but never sat down to watch it properly. Surprisingly good. The opening credits are beautiful and childlike.

The story takes place in a small southern town, and is seen through the eyes of two children. Their father is a lawyer, Atticus, who is asked to defend a black man named Tom Robinson who has been charged with rape.

A really excellent cast. Gregory Peck is Atticus, and is still as handsome as ever. A few little interesting notes about the film: I didn't know it was a very young Robert Duvall that played the character of Boo. Dill's character is also based on the young Truman Capote. Scout and Jem were played by two kids that hated each other's guts in real life. There is a scene in the film when Scout gets into a tyre so she can be rolled down the street. Jem was so angry at Scout on set, that when they were filming, he tries to kill her by pushing the tyre towards a truck. Hehehe. Crazy kids.

The film's reawakened the need to revist and watch the old classics again. I think I might try to hunt down a few Hitchcock flicks. On the top of the list are two films that left an impression on me when I was a kid, "Vertigo" and "The Birds".

Hmmm... I think I need to rest my stomach now.

Dang. All this recent rainy weather, although great for water catchments, not so good for canvas. One of the canvases that had been suffering from sagging has now been stripped from the stretcher. I might wait till tuesday when it's supposed to get warmer again.

'Seem to be sufferring a bit of bad luck with the technical goods. Macbook is doing the whole random shut down thing that so many macbook owners have reported happening. It's a bit annoying, because there's no warning when it happens. No mouse freezing, no spinning beach ball of death... just one big black blank. Though on a positive note, I'm hoping to get a new monitor tomorrow.



I'm watching a Bosch documentary. Fascinating stuff. His paintings are pretty disturbing for medieval times. Incredibly detailed panels of heaven and hell. Trippy stuff. You always see something new in his work. He gave free reign to his imagination, I think even more so than Dali.

As you can see, my can of oil primer has completely dried out. Grrrrr...
Had to make a run into the city this arvo to the alladin's cave to get some. A real pain in the arse.
Anyway, this particular art store is amazing. One of my faveorites. You could really spend hours (and alot of money) in there. They sell pigments in jars and grinders. I'm thinking about getting a grinder. I had been inspired to go down this ancient route of the old masters by this link I had found on the internet by this girl named Margaret. It had been awhile since I had used size, so I wanted to find out the correct ratios for the application. She had posted one of the more better explainations of preparing canvases. It was a fairly clear, simple and detailed description. It made me look forward to getting back into it.

Curious to see what her paintings were like, I decided to see if I could go back to her website.

I was shocked to come across her main page where I found out they were looking for this young girl's killer. She had been brutally stabbed in a park in London. The stabbing occurred 2 years ago. Other joggers had heard her screams and found her slumped on a path. She was only 27.

Her murder seemed completely random. A "thrill kill" they called it.
I think about all the fuss around Steve Irwin's death, and compare it the passing of this young girl who had so much potential. Even though I never knew her, I feel so sad discovering her death like this. I keep thinking about how much pain she must have been in. I still can't believe it.

The world seems so crazy sometimes.

A very strange day.
I woke up at 5.30am. An ungodly hour. The winds were howling something fierce, shaking the windows. I couldn't sleep. An amazing phenomenon for a girl who likes to sleep for 12 hours.

It was still dark when I got up. It felt like I just went to bed. I could hear the garbage trucks outside. That cold silence of everyone else being asleep. Just sitting there, watching the day get lighter. No sunrise today. Just different shades of grey.

I had planned to size some canvas, but because the weather has been wet today, every now and then the glue emits this unusual odour. Not a smell you can get high from, but one that smells like rotting mushrooms and meat gone bad. Weather plays havoc with canvases. So I'm hoping all that moisture in the air right now don't cause these ones to sag.

I've been very restless today. I think there might have been an eclipse. I've vowed to stop reading my horoscope from this particular site: http://www.astrologyzone.com. It's just been two months of bad news. So screw that. Freewill all the way baby.

Another day ends, and it's quiet. Everyone's turned in.
Not so many lights now...

And I feel cold and wide awake...

Woohoo finally got my book, "Blind Willow, Sleeping Women". Hard cover, roughly cut pages. 24 luscious Murakami stories to sink into.

Perfect weather for it too. It's started to rain. On the balcony it sounds great. The first flash of lightening. Storms and good stories are always greatly anticipated.

Been reading some of Saul Williams works.

"even my pen man ship
throws thoughts overboard
into a blank ink sea

and how many thoughts perish
before they reach the page?"


I'd forgotton how much I enjoyed reading poetry.

Actually, I'd forgotton how much I enjoyed writing. Curling up with a pen and a doggied exercise book. I'd write on trains, at home, at cafes, in libraries. It came to feel like an extension of myself. It felt like I was doing somethings special. Weaving together thoughts and ideas, collaging, getting lost in the meanings of random connections.

The best works I've read seem to revolve around the theme of love, or more specifically, unrequited or unfulfilled love. I don't know why we don't feel complete on our own. Never satisfied. I guess it goes way back to the Greeks. That whole idea of being divided and feeling incomplete. Constantly looking for that other matching shoe, that lost sock. Our Adam. Our Eve.

Spring is here. You can smell it in the air. Change is on its way.
I can feel it in my bones.

Good night world. See you tomorrow.

My whole body feels left-handed.
But surprisingly music has never sounded this good. It makes me want to sing. And keep singing.

Bones still feel light and smooth.
A real struggle to stay in one piece and not spill on the floor.

Last time I felt like this was when I was five
Standing in the sun
Feeling nervous, hands wet.

Doesn't really feel like I'm here at all.

I wouldn't want to feel like this everyday.

octopussy

Was drawing late last night whilst watching Northern Exposure. What a great series.
I was thinking about adding some acrylic but I like the black and white in this one. Might do a series of octopussy drawings and see what happens.