payable through check or money order
That the sketching pad is full is of little consequence--the bookshelf must be an artist itself, knowing there's nothing more alluring, or annoying, than a blank space, and likes to fill its shelves with them when he's hoping for something to just read. There's a stack of hardbound journals and moleskine notebooks on the nearest table, ready to help him stave off the long afternoons when he just can't sleep anymore, but the point is, neat little books and pads, even canvases, aren't enough for Jude. They're small, two-dimensional, and always the same bloody shape.
No, what Jude's eying in the rec room isn't a shelf of books, but the adjacent wall, enough space to start at one corner and spill all the way up to the ceiling, if he can find the tools for it. Right now he's kneeling by a stack of newspapers, cigarette rolling from one corner of his mouth to the other. Pages fan out over the floor, turned over to hide the more glaring pictures and headlines about the war. He'll paint on that side for sure, but he doesn't want to look at them in the meantime, arranging shades of grey into an abstract shape, something with odd corners, with newspapers layered into a canvas that reaches in odd directions and filters back into a single piece, the piece that he'll put in that corner. It's an innocuous advertisement for a porcelain figurine, some bloke leaning against a street sign for Penny Lane that Jude doesn't understand, something about getting pieces of Liverpool before they're all stolen.
He never knew Liverpool to be built out of glazed kitsch, much less glazed kitsch in such high demand. Clearly the world went from insane to silly after they won the war. Still, it's something like a picture of home, and it's as good a starting point as any, if he ever finds enough glue and paint to properly deface this wall with. It wouldn't do to ask, of course--someone might point out the public nature of said wall, and then he'd have to drag everything back to the hut and make do with Max's. He's trying to save those walls for a rainy day.
Huffing an impatient sigh at the loose papers, he tips back onto his ass and digs a match from his back pocket, lighting his cigarette and shaking the match quickly out before tossing it onto the pile. He's contemplating vandalism--not arson.
[Find him in the rec room between the bookshelves and long tables, smoking indoors and plotting to improvedeface public property. New threads welcome through Monday, ST while I juggle school and work.]
No, what Jude's eying in the rec room isn't a shelf of books, but the adjacent wall, enough space to start at one corner and spill all the way up to the ceiling, if he can find the tools for it. Right now he's kneeling by a stack of newspapers, cigarette rolling from one corner of his mouth to the other. Pages fan out over the floor, turned over to hide the more glaring pictures and headlines about the war. He'll paint on that side for sure, but he doesn't want to look at them in the meantime, arranging shades of grey into an abstract shape, something with odd corners, with newspapers layered into a canvas that reaches in odd directions and filters back into a single piece, the piece that he'll put in that corner. It's an innocuous advertisement for a porcelain figurine, some bloke leaning against a street sign for Penny Lane that Jude doesn't understand, something about getting pieces of Liverpool before they're all stolen.
He never knew Liverpool to be built out of glazed kitsch, much less glazed kitsch in such high demand. Clearly the world went from insane to silly after they won the war. Still, it's something like a picture of home, and it's as good a starting point as any, if he ever finds enough glue and paint to properly deface this wall with. It wouldn't do to ask, of course--someone might point out the public nature of said wall, and then he'd have to drag everything back to the hut and make do with Max's. He's trying to save those walls for a rainy day.
Huffing an impatient sigh at the loose papers, he tips back onto his ass and digs a match from his back pocket, lighting his cigarette and shaking the match quickly out before tossing it onto the pile. He's contemplating vandalism--not arson.
[Find him in the rec room between the bookshelves and long tables, smoking indoors and plotting to improvedeface public property. New threads welcome through Monday, ST while I juggle school and work.]