An old dream...

I had a pretty incredible dream about a year ago... It's long, so have patience with me.
I typed it up because Lost at E Minor is having a contest, giving away beautiful hand-screened pillowcases to the five best dreams posted on there. We'll see what they think of mine.

My mother and I had moved to a rocky island far, far from any mainland. It was formed from the junction of two jutting mountains that poked above the waves. The sea about it was shrouded in an impenetrable grey mist, and a cold rain was perpetual. There was a kind of small valley between and to one side of the two mountains, with terraced rock and carved stairs that led from either mountain down into the vale. The only vegetation on the island was a patch of tall grass at the very top of those terraces, and two tall pines that sheltered against the sheer rock.

Both mountains were practically hollow, and riddled with caverns. There was evidence that both had been lived in, though one had been emptied and the other had only a few material remnants of the former occupants. My mother and I were the only ones on the island now, and it had been deserted when we arrived.

We had moved into the caves that still contained some furnishings, scant though they were. There were a few beds, covered in damp sheets, and a great portrait on the wall of a middle aged man with white hair. There was no food on the island, and no apparent way to get it. I searched extensively through our caves, for anything that might have been left behind. I discovered what looked like a pantry, but all that was in it was a much-folded and hand drawn map. It was of the opposite cave system, and though I had explored it as well and found it entirely empty, the map showed an icon shaped like a purple vial in one of the long galleries there. I went to investigate once more, but found no trace of any such object.

The food situation was getting desperate. From the limbs of one of the two pines, I fashioned a kind of trap. I was hoping that some traveling gull might fall afoul of it somehow, though I had nothing to use as bait and so this hope was really quite pathetic. I was descending the stair one day, to check the trap (I had set it in that protected spot near the pines) when I looked up to see a full grown female boar standing in the lee of the pines. With each step I took closer, though, she faded, and eventually was gone altogether. The trap had been sprung, though, and in it I found two baby boars, both sound asleep. Overjoyed, I reached in a took one of them, waking it. It looked at me with big, dark eyes, shivering, and I was unable to bring myself to kill it. My mother was more pragmatic, however, when I showed it to her. She seized it by the chin and slit its throat cleanly with a knife. My job became cooking it. I set up a small collection of firewood and grass, with the piglet spitted above it. The cold wind and rain worked against me, however, and I failed entirely at my attempt to get a fire started.

Despaired, I wandered back down the steps to where the second piglet still lay. It was awake, and upon seeing me it slid out through the bars of the trap and approached.
"Hello," it spoke. "Have you seen my sister?"
I was dumbstruck. The image of the other little boar, spitted and hanging over my failed fire, hung in my mind. I felt too guilty to say anything to her, and only sunk to my knees. She climbed into my lap, small and furry and brown.
"I guess she must have wandered off somewhere." I did not reply. Settling down, she began to tell me her story.

The island had originally been settled by a great and beautiful Sorceress and her followers. It was no more plentiful then than it was now, but by her powers they made do. The unique geography of the island had forced the group to split into two parties of eight people each. The Sorceress had settled in the entirely empty caverns with some of her disciples, and the rest had settled in the one in which we now lived. Among the ones in that second cavern was the white-haired man of whom the portrait was painted. As time advanced, he had begun to think of himself as sort of a co-leader of the group. Eventually, he even felt that he should be the logical choice of consort for the beautiful Sorceress.

The Sorceress had taken for herself the long gallery I had seen marked on the map. In it, she kept a long row of enormous purple vials, at least two or three dozen. Each contained, suspended and inanimate in violet fluid, a creature. There were all manner of birds and fish, mammals and monsters and a few that looked much like the Sorceress herself. All she needed to do was climb into one of these vials, and she could travel away from the island in whatever form was held within. There was one that appeared very much like her, but with the delicate hooves of a boar instead of hands and feet. It was in this form that she had met and fallen in love with a man on a far island, and with him made her two girls.

The unrest on the island had grown. Knowing how dark and jealous the white-haired man had become, she had hidden her daughters from his knowledge. But one day, the white-haired man sneaked into her chamber whilst she was traveling, and saw in the vial an image of her embracing her lover. What exactly happened was not clear, the little boar girl had not been there to see it. All that she knew was that she was utterly alone now on the island.

"Except for my sister," she said. She looked up into my face. "She's very quiet, and shy. Are you sure you have not seen her?"

That was my dream. I still get this cold, guilty feeling in my gut when I think about the poor little boar-girl and her sister.

Printmaking

And falling back in love with intaglio, especially drypoint. Here's a spontaneous drypoint I sketched out the other day. It's state proof #1, so it's far from finished. Definitely adding more definition to the cat. Perhaps burnishing and adding some scenery.

Working hard

Indeed I am. Look at the things I make!
The semester, feeling as though it has just begun, is in fact coming to a close... and ever closer looms my midyear critique. The thought scares the shit out of me. I am seriously going to make note cards beforehand. 'Tis a lot of pressure, being singled out and grilled by 5+ people at once, your peers clustered close to stare. And we each have individual dates! So it's not as though they will finish with me and move on to someone else. All those people will be there just for the sake of critiquing my progress (and oh are they tough at midyears).
I am trying hard not to be sick from the very thought.

So what has Lisa been up to?
Lisa has been working her butt off making books. One in particular about Water Bears, which she will post here when she is done with it. Also, she is working to try and get her website online, finally, because she is tired of paying for hosting and not having anything yet to host.
Oh, and business cards. Those too.
So here is a sketch she did in Photoshop today during Digital Drawing class. Because Troy told her to make he own brushes. Surreptitiously, she was actually working on her resume. But Troy doesn't need to know that.

No more third person, I promise. that was silly.

triumphal re-turn

I am back! And I am, after several years of not posting, reclaiming my blog.
It is to be an art blog.
It will contain my art.
I think that's all we need to know. And I will try to update it, if not frequently, at least weekly.
I am a trendy blogger of mine own art! yarr!


I am marking my return with this little guy, who is a character sketch for a comic I'm working on.
My roommate described him as "A Chocobo that has been drawn by Bosch."









I shouldn't have to mention this, but all images and writing on this blog belong to me.
Don't steal them. That's illegal, stupid, and would make me sad.
And angry. And self-righteously indignant.

old about me

It kind of fluttered once it hit the grass, its crooked wings jack-knifing awkwardly as they slapped and tangled with one another. It tilted its flat grey head and peered up at me through the reeds, unblinking. One could only feel pity for its golden-eyed sorrow.
I stalked slowly toward it, reeling my string in with even deliberation as I did. The kite was utterly destroyed, savaged by the serendipity of long curved talons and four flailing wings. It began keening piteously as I approached, limping little hops strained against the tightening wire. I could better appreciate its delicate colouration from this proximity. The head might have been grey, but the rest of its body was glossy with an iridescent dark blue. White eyelids were dabbed beneath black streaks that continued down its neck to its coverted shoulders. It opened a silver beak on a black tongue, hissing.
I reached out a hand.

freewrite

A tiny, wriggling imperfection in the corner of the eye. Turned for better perception, it slides until you find yourself staring at a blank wall with a spot in the peripheral you cannot see. It is the thought of a reality different than your own. The idea that the world, as you understand it, does not compare to the roiling vastness of truth steeping beneath its surface.
That is how I perceive it now. The entirety of the visible world, the surface of some vast body of water. Every now and again even the average person receives a hint of this. A rippling that might be the jerking spasms of a tired eye. A glimpse of movement that might be paranoia or stress. Nothing to indicate anything other than the stable perimetres delineated by reflecting light, reverberating soundwaves, physical resistance of surfaces or airborne particles.
Even I can claim only tentative knowledge of this realm. My sight is clouded by those ubiquitous landscapes and beings which it is within the ordinary ability to comprehend. I understand your own involvement to be greater, however, and so it is with urgency that I pen this note.

refusing to be alone

It folds and slides about my shoulder
Leaving my wonder to follow it there
I avoid diverting my gaze to enfold it
Knowing that knowledge dissolves the mystery
And the mystery is all that keeps it alive

I will refuse to murder you
My little invisible accomplice
Please stay with me
Though I will never know that you are there

Changeling (1st post)

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Anna said, placing the scissors down upon the table with a click. Licking her thumb, she began to shuffle through the clippings.

“Look,” Muttered Jeff, tinkering minutely with a tiny wooden model. “Terry’s already nine. By the time he’s graduated college, we’ll be edging towards our seventies. Do you really….”
“It’s just that,” Anna interrupted, standing abruptly and sweeping her coupons into a paper bag. “Well, we always planned on having more kids. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a girl? Remember what…”
“Do you really,” reiterated her husband. “Think we’d be capable of raising another child? Terry might be all right, but by the time a baby could grow up we’d be far beyond parenting age. You’re supposed to sit back and relax in your old age, not support your second child through college!” He emphasized this last with a pointed glance from beneath craggy eyebrows.
“Right.” Anna pushed her bag aside with one slipper. Walking to the stove, she cracked the door to a wave of heat and odor. Backing away a step, she reached to pull her mitts down from the enameled blue hook on the wall.
“So what’s for dinner?” Jeff grunted, his attention focused upon the intricate construct once more.
“Chicken casserole.” Anna’s voice was scarcely audible over the metallic scrape of the pan leaving the oven rack. The door slammed shut.
“Oh honey,” He turned, his chair scraping a semicircle onto the linoleum. “We’ll have grandchildren before you know it! You’ll see…” Her eyes were diverted from contact. Fixed instead upon within the contents of the casserole dish as it sat before her, lid held ajar by one muffled hand.
“Honey?”
“Hush!” Her gaze was intent. Slowly, cautiously, she drew the lid back further. From within the curving dark confines of the pan, a thin wail emerged.
“Anna?” Jeff stood, walking slowly towards his wife, his demeanor wary. He reached out to place a hand upon her shoulder, and her eyes, wide, flew up to meet his.
“I…I didn’t…I don’t know!” Her breath was heavy, and she seemed almost on the verge of tears. In the dish, the tiny child screamed and contorted itself red. Jeff harrumphed and raised his eyebrows.
“Well,” He said. “Thirty-five minutes at 425 degrees is hardly the correct conditions for creating a baby….” He glanced at his wife, sharply. Eyes a steely grey. “You didn’t…steal it, did you?”
“No!” She was aghast, stepping away from him. “No! I have no idea where…” Her eyes, roving, returned to the child. “Oh, poor little dear…no use arguing until you’re comfortable, at least.” Scooping the squalling creature up, she swaddled it in a dishrag and held it close. “There there…it’s alright, honey…”
“Um, Anna? Shouldn’t we be discussing what to do with it?”
“Her. It’s a her, Jeffrey.” She had turned her back on him, bouncing the infant comfortingly against her breast. She had shut her mouth, and was now staring up at Anna through glassy black eyes, her face a mass of tears and oozing mucus. Terry chose this moment to walk in upon the scene.
“Mommy, I think there’s something wrong with the TV, Mommy.” He walked across the room, pulling himself up into one of the kitchen chairs and dangling bare feet, toes wiggling. “And I’m hungry. Can I have a ‘neat butter cracker?” He stared up at his mother expectantly. She stared back.
“Honey,” She began. “Mommy and Daddy are a little busy at the moment…” The baby squirmed and kicked out in her arms, straining her back into an arch and purpling. Terry watched impassively, pale eyes nonchalant.
“What is it?”
“It…she’s a baby, darling. “
“No it’s not.” He bounced up, standing on tiptoes to view the squirming interloper. She began to struggle more vigorously with his increased proximity.
“What are you talking about? Of course she’s a baby.” Stated his father gruffly, coming up to peer over his wife’s shoulder at the new child.
“No,” Terry was adamant. “It’s not. And I should know, I’m closer to being a baby than you are. I remember what it’s like.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Terry.”
“I mean…” He prodded the baby’s soft shoulder, a perplexed expression crossing his pouting features. “It’s because of the way it feels. It’s not acting like a baby. I mean…it’s not seeing us the way a baby would.” He shrugged and looked up. “I’m really hungry, Mommy.”
“Well you can just wait!” She huffed, turning and trouncing out of the kitchen. “Jeff, get your coat! You need to go buy some baby formula!”
“Which one?” He was on the move as well, groping along the bottom of a drawer for his car keys.
“The brand doesn’t matter, just get something for newborns.” Anna sat down upon the couch, cradling the indignant creature and stroking her soft, bald head.

Rain light (The second section)

It was 3 o’clock in the morning and Sarah was sitting alone in her apartment drinking tea. The lights were turned down, so that only a faintly ruddy cast existed to vie with the dull purpling grey dappled through the rain-pearled windows. She sat her high-backed chair with dignity, positioned before the French doors that lead out to the balcony so that her profile blued in silhouette. The raindrops trickled with a steady rhythm, and she juxtaposed the sound with the flow of her blood.
About her the floor was clear for a good two meters, a great enough perimeter to allow for movement around her long-legged table and two mismatched chairs. The area beyond that, however, was populated by a great and inequitable collection of bottles, jars, boxes, bags, and any other conceivable container of estimable volume. They jutted and teetered, stacked in a haphazard fashion that set the colors and angles to battle against one another. Vertical or diagonal, translucent blue and green glinting upon solid brown, orange, red; the incompatibility of the objects reflected the disparity of their contents.
Sarah’s gaze focused on some point invisible beyond the water-sheen on the French doors, pointedly ignoring the looming pile on the other side of the room. Absent mindedly, she passed her hands over her mug, feeling the warmth of the steam seep into her numbing fingertips. A few fast-trickled droplets added a peculiar spice to her tea.
A faint purple shadow fluttered across her vision, a crackling profile upon the glass. Recognizing it, she staggered to her feet and forward, opening the door with a deliberate tug. Glaring, she stumbled out onto the rain-slicked balcony, slipping and catching herself on the hooked doorknob. She hung there for several moments, her arms throbbing and shaking weakly, before slithering slowly to the ground with a wet plop. She began to cry.
Her visitor stooped and picked her up, cradling her with a peculiar tenderness incongruous with his gruff appearance. Carrying her several feet, he deposited her upon a damp slatted deck chair, then positioning himself upon an adjacent seat. Sarah continued to sob hollowly into her hands, mingled bodily fluids flowing with the rain through her clenched fingers and down to her elbows. Her companion watched in silence for a time, shifting uncomfortably. Finally he spoke up, his voice catching in an attempt to veil his emotions.
“Why haven’t you spoken to me?” He studied her from beneath brows lowered in consternation. She sniffed heartily, pulling her hands slowly from her face and wiping them on the sodden white ruffles of her dress. The look she directed towards him from red-rimmed eyes spoke little of camaraderie.
“You left me.” Her voice was perfectly calm, despite her outward demeanor. He stared at her blankly for several seconds before processing what she had said.
“What?”
“You left me.” Her voice quivered now, the façade breaking into rage and suppressed tears. “I worked and hurt and despaired, but you never came to me. You, you abandoned me to them.” She nearly spit the last, turning her head away and slumping in her chair, sorrow and blood loss weakening her. He reached forward to squeeze her shoulder but she batted him away ineffectually. He tried dredging up a convincing response.
“I…I thought you were strong enough. You’re more akin to them than most of ours…” His ending was lame. He realized his mistake. She was too young, too emotional and too inexperienced to bear up the job they had charged her with alone. But their resources were short, and cut ends had deposited her in a city she was barely old enough to live in solitary, much less with the burden she shouldered. A hand over his mouth stifled a coughing sigh. Wiping the rain from his brow, he stared limply at tangled fingers in his lap. His voice was almost inaudible.
“I’m sorry,” his breath juddered with regret. “I’m so, so sorry…” Green eyes watched her through ragged strings of hair, brimming with regret. She turned her head slowly, staring over one shoulder through partly shuttered eyes, her cheek resting against the chair back in exhaustion. After several minutes, she smiled wanly.
“You’re too late, aren’t you?” Barely a whisper, a tinny rasp. His hands separated and clenched into fists, but he could not draw his eyes from hers.
“No, not quite…”
“I know how it is for us,” She interrupted him. “I know nothing’s permanent. But I still have a choice, and that doesn’t have to be what you want either.” She looked down at her wrist, trying feebly to lift it and failed, still smiling. He breathed deeply, exhaling through flared nostrils, barely controlled.
“You don’t understand the situation, Sarah. You’re too young to comprehend absolute termination.” She shrugged.
“Maybe. But I’ve decided anyway, now haven’t I?” Her eyes trembled closed, and even as he reached to clasp her hand the breath ghosted faintly from her lips and lay still.
He stroked her tiny pale hand, massaging her unfeeling fingers, so cold. There was nothing else he could do. Simple as that, he had missed any available opportunity, and her death was as much his fault as her own and every failed dream and shallow soul she had ever encountered. And now she was determined to throw away not only her life but everything else she had inherited by merit of her existence and occupation. There was only one thing for it.
He stroked her cheek one last time and, standing, strode off of the balcony and into the night.