(no subject)
Tough times in the realms of my brain. Therapy leaves me so bruised these days that I feel like crying (instead I went and got a matcha latte because that seemed a grown-up response that was less heinous than drinking until everything stops happening, which is what I wanted and still want to do).
Hopefully a week full of seeing people and doing things will stop me feeling like a big hollow smudge of grey, although at this precise moment the idea of moving is hideous, the idea of sleeping is horrifying, and I'm not sure what it is precisely that will help (drinking). I have some final preparations (too many) to make before bookmageddon begins (I am not prepared); everything is very loud.
[Birthday wishlist: it expands at night, when I am working and deranged].
Also I was kissed by a deer the other day. That helped, briefly.
Roughly the high point of my working weeks at the moment is conversations with South Emma about writing, because they exercise a part of my brain which otherwise gets very little use, and which needs using if I am to continue writing, and which do not thankfully revolve around the absolute contempt in which "people" hold me for approaching things in a non-pragmatic manner occasionally. Here are a sampling:
Blogs
Conversations on How To Write
Anishvaravadi expresses my feelings. Drawn from reference.
Anishvaravadi, no reference.
Anishvaravadi, a mixture of reference and no.
He-Who-Is-Light, Anishvaravadi, He-Who-Is-Dark, no reference, tiny notebook, brush pen, no farking details.
Anishvaravadi, reference.
Anishvaravadi, no reference.
Earlier design stuff of Anish.
Ditto.
Cute faun, last night, reference.
Cuter faun, last night, no reference.
Fauns, a mixture of reference and no.
Fauns, from reference.
Calligraphy. The Kanji for "green" here is slightly wrong.
Bear, Tea.
The ink cartridge in the brush pen finally started to feed through properly and it has a lovely feel.
Tea.
Anishvaravadi, various pens, no reference.
Ditto.
And again.
Here he is in the Inbetween.
Hopefully a week full of seeing people and doing things will stop me feeling like a big hollow smudge of grey, although at this precise moment the idea of moving is hideous, the idea of sleeping is horrifying, and I'm not sure what it is precisely that will help (drinking). I have some final preparations (too many) to make before bookmageddon begins (I am not prepared); everything is very loud.
[Birthday wishlist: it expands at night, when I am working and deranged].
Also I was kissed by a deer the other day. That helped, briefly.
Roughly the high point of my working weeks at the moment is conversations with South Emma about writing, because they exercise a part of my brain which otherwise gets very little use, and which needs using if I am to continue writing, and which do not thankfully revolve around the absolute contempt in which "people" hold me for approaching things in a non-pragmatic manner occasionally. Here are a sampling:
Blogs
Conversations on How To Write
Anishvaravadi expresses my feelings. Drawn from reference.
Anishvaravadi, no reference.
Anishvaravadi, a mixture of reference and no.
He-Who-Is-Light, Anishvaravadi, He-Who-Is-Dark, no reference, tiny notebook, brush pen, no farking details.
Anishvaravadi, reference.
Anishvaravadi, no reference.
Earlier design stuff of Anish.
Ditto.
Cute faun, last night, reference.
Cuter faun, last night, no reference.
Fauns, a mixture of reference and no.
Fauns, from reference.
Calligraphy. The Kanji for "green" here is slightly wrong.
Bear, Tea.
The ink cartridge in the brush pen finally started to feed through properly and it has a lovely feel.
Tea.
Anishvaravadi, various pens, no reference.
Ditto.
And again.
Here he is in the Inbetween.