daily thoughts; no particular shape
Another Woolf that doesn’t look like Woolf. I need to sharpen these colored pencils.
She’s been taped inside my crayon box for a long time; I don’t know why. But now, here she is in colored pencil, with too much everything.
Collage on cover of my math notebook, 2002. Was I really so creepy? It heartens me to think so
I jogged to the cemetery today, truly the perfect picture of an old and creepy one–headstones illegible with moss and erosion, broken and falling over–perfect except for the busy road that runs past it, the living whizzing by the long dead, and a lone lady standing sweaty, squinting, looking for the edge of the world.
A rainy day, with no reason not to finger paint.
Keep thinking about how skin is always dying, we are always growing, wiggly little proteins are unfurling inside us, and it’ll all probably work itself out.
I am trying: to focus, to be kind, to keep myself from picking at the horrible mutant zit to the left of my nose.
Today it rained, and I watched a loop of jellyfish footage my friend took at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, over and over.
Our baby has learned to hug, or sort of, intentionally lean, in an affectionate way, and we are over the moon.
Sometimes a good friend comes around and makes you feel at home and inspired, and then, monklike, you sweep the basement floor.