[for Jack]
As with all else, the things Jude misses from home are hardly conventional. He's always been a bit rootless, enough confidence in him to feel at ease in any setting, and the island is no exception. With Max and Lucy already here, whatever the complications, he's only a handful of people to miss, and people have always come and go as easily as anything else.
Against all odds, Jude misses his job. And not the shit back home, or working on the ship's crew, but just that aspect of New York, being able to do something he loves for a living. He doesn't need much of a living here, but he'd liked the jobs, liked the posters and signs and album covers--a constant stream of inspiration and purpose, even when he was feeling in a rut.
And the way things have been going lately, he'd have to admit he's getting there. He walks plenty, wanders the island with his drawing pad and a charcoal stick, looking for anything to catch his eye and his imagination, but there's nothing in them, these sketches of flora and fauna, these pictures of various huts and structures against a tropical background. They aren't rubbish, but they're worthless to him, no use and no feeling, just trying to draw his way out of a hole, and he can't tell if Max is at the top of the bottom of it after the other day, but he doesn't want to figure it out just yet.
Charcoal tucked behind a smudged ear, a grey trail on his cheek and a right mess of lines on the pad, representing nothing at all, he slaps it down against the kitchen counter with a sigh, staring balefully at the bowl of fruit adjacent as if it could inject a little more life into its arrangement. "Hold still, you waxy buggers," he huffs, in a fit of humor more odd than ill.
Against all odds, Jude misses his job. And not the shit back home, or working on the ship's crew, but just that aspect of New York, being able to do something he loves for a living. He doesn't need much of a living here, but he'd liked the jobs, liked the posters and signs and album covers--a constant stream of inspiration and purpose, even when he was feeling in a rut.
And the way things have been going lately, he'd have to admit he's getting there. He walks plenty, wanders the island with his drawing pad and a charcoal stick, looking for anything to catch his eye and his imagination, but there's nothing in them, these sketches of flora and fauna, these pictures of various huts and structures against a tropical background. They aren't rubbish, but they're worthless to him, no use and no feeling, just trying to draw his way out of a hole, and he can't tell if Max is at the top of the bottom of it after the other day, but he doesn't want to figure it out just yet.
Charcoal tucked behind a smudged ear, a grey trail on his cheek and a right mess of lines on the pad, representing nothing at all, he slaps it down against the kitchen counter with a sigh, staring balefully at the bowl of fruit adjacent as if it could inject a little more life into its arrangement. "Hold still, you waxy buggers," he huffs, in a fit of humor more odd than ill.