Crush with Eyeliner

From Monster, 1994.

Identity is a messy thing. You think you know who you are. You dress a certain way, act a certain way, speak a certain way. You present your best self to the world, or so you think, every time you post a new profile pic on social media, post a pic of the complex meal you just cooked, post a pic of your immaculate/kooky/cozy/eclectic/artsy/worldly house/flat/apartment/room. You do all of these things to assert your version of who you are, so that everyone knows you're that guy/girl.

But are you really? How much effort did it take to get yourself that way? But maybe that's part of your identity. You aren't really you without the purple hair, the face jewellery, the sleeve tattoos, the dress made of bits of Moroccan tapestry held together with kilt pins.

And that's cool, man. That's perfectly alright. It's better than alright, because who wants to be normal in this weird world anyway? In the sea of beige, be the neon. That's how that saying goes, right? The beige deny their true selves, choosing to wear the uniform of the masses, while the neon go out of their way to hide their authentic beigeness. Or, the beige are presenting the most authentic version of themselves to the world, while the neon are the rare birds who can't keep their true colours hidden. The fake is true, and the truth is fake. What a mess indeed.

But really, the messy part isn't the mess you made of your vanity to get your make up just right, or the mess you made on the kitchen counter to cook that spectacular meal, or the mess you made in the living room to perfectly wrap and decorate the myriad Christmas presents under your tree.

The messy part is that you don't get to pick how other people see you. You don't own that. Your identity, however self-created or accidental, is all in your head. You present yourself as a writer; your mother buys you a ukulele for Christmas and tells you it was always your calling. Not that validation from others is required. You know who you are, and that's all that matters. Right?

Turning inward... every day I wake up and wish I was something else. Goth. Punk. Harajuku. Jedi. For about a year, I wasn't my true self unless I had asymetrical rainbow coloured hair. Right now, all I want is to be invisible, to fade into the background and let someone else be rainbow coloured and asymetrical. Until I bump into her on the street and curse her under my breath for being cooler than I am. Then I'll take it back.

Pop Song 89

Side 1, track 1 from Green, 1988.

A sonic ode to small talk. Maybe not an ode. Maybe just a statement. A socially awkward statement. I basically refuse to speak on the phone anymore, unless it's to one of two people: my gramma or my stepdad. And basically only because they don't text message.

Text messaging is a socially awkward introvert's dream come true. 

Get Up

From Green, 1988.

When it's cold and dark outside, getting out of bed and showing up to life is one of the hardest things. The cats never seem to mind it. When you're a cat, lounging around dreamily is how you show up to life. Getting up is temporary and soon followed by another round of sleepy dealings.

I'm not saying I want that to be my life. I'm just saying that cats make sleeping into an art form. They show up to life dreaming.

I think I'll make this my show up to life song. Starting tomorrow morning.

*****

Update: I have been told by different people who are not connected to each other in any way that it looks like the cats in this sketch are humping.

I can assure you they are not. Not that I have a problem with cats humping, per se. That just wasn't my goal. And while you are free to see anything you want in a piece of art and interpret it how you see fit, I just want to put it out there that they're not humping, and the reason they're not humping is that they're just not humping. Can I use the word humping one more time? 

Here is the photo that I used for reference. Not humping, clearly. Laying about like cats do, clearly. Also, how cute are they? Right? Just what the internet needed... more cat pictures. Clearly.

King of Birds

From Document (1987).

It’s hard to be original in a world where it seems that everything has already been done. There’s nothing new under the sun. There is only how you perceive it, how you describe it, how you convey it to others, which is new.

Ask a classroom of 25 kids to draw a picture of something, you get 25 exceptionally unique pictures of that thing.

I think that everything that came before you helped to shape the things you create, whether you know it or not. Maybe you’ve never encountered the absolute original. Maybe it goes too far back. Maybe as far back as a cave painting, or a tribal drum beat. But its existence brought about the creation of many other things, and you’ve encountered some of those, and that means the thing you made is the next link in the chain of creativity.

It may not be the next big thing. It may seem to you like a drop in the ocean, something that doesn’t matter, wholly uninfluential. But I like to think that merely existing on the creativity continuum makes it important, whether it ends up on auction at Sotheby’s, or gets 100 views on YouTube, or gets tossed into a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone.

Because it exists, it has matter, and that means the make-up of the universe has been forever altered. Those quantum particles go swirling undetected by human eyes into the atmosphere and are carried away to other places as if on the wings of birds. And then someone somewhere is offered the ephemeral hand of inspiration, and it drives the creation of something new which has been made before, but not like this. Something which might be auctioned at Sotheby’s, or get 100 views on YouTube, or end up in a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone…

Losing My Religion

Once upon a time there was a little girl who did what she was told. She went to Sunday school and received her sacraments. She believed everything the grown ups told her, because why wouldn't she? 

Then one day when she was no longer little, she realized that her understanding of the world conflicted with the things she had been told. She was okay with this. It didn't really challenge her to let go of the old ways of thinking. She let them go quite readily, in fact.

Except, she would still occasionally find herself thinking in the old way. That way of thinking was wrong, she rationalized. It didn't make any sense. So then who was she talking to when she wished out loud?

Some neural pathways are harder to rewire than others.

From Out of Time, 1991.

Pilgrimage

From Murmur (1983).

I don't know that I can say I've had many religious experiences... I mean I've been to church. But I don't know that I can say I've ever felt a part of a sacred or spiritually significant event that demonstrates proof of a deity or justification of faith. Some would argue that proof is in everything from the minutia of our daily lives to the beauty of nature to the miracles of love and birth. These are wonderful things to be sure, and my heart does swell in those moments when I stop to smell the proverbial roses.

Still, I'd like to think that we all have our own two-headed cow, whether we consider ourselves to be spiritual beings or not. Something we journey for, to fill our hearts with love and wonder, to fill us up so that we can keep going. This is slightly embarrassing, but my two-headed cow might be my cats. My daily pilgrimage home from work to find my two feline companions waiting for me by the door, meowing and purring, prancing across the room because I've come back for them (or you know, for food, whatever). 

And later, when your cherished pet brings you a sock all the way from upstairs as an offering, she's made her own pilgrimage, in a way. To my cats, I'm a two-headed cow, too.

The Flowers of Guatemala

From Lifes Rich Pageant (1986).

Amanita is the name. The flowers cover everything. This lyric was the inspiration for this sketch. 

click to enlarge

Because I didn't know a single thing about Guatemalan history, this pretty song filled my head with images of a pretty girl named after a pretty flower. Then I googled Amanita to find out what the flower looks like and instead discovered that it's a poisonous mushroom. You know, that poisonous mushroom, the red one with the white dots. Famous for its striking appearance and toxicity. 

I found it pretty hard to believe that the reference to Amanita in this song was some kind of error, so the googling continued. Then I found out that this pretty song references a pretty horrific event in Guatemalan history.

But I figured that if R.E.M. can make a pretty song about something not pretty... (well, I suppose the flowers on the graves of the Guatemalan dead can be pretty, even if the reason they're there is not) then I can still make a pretty picture.

Also... it's great to be sketching again! My wrist is on the mend (test results showed "non-specific inflammation of the tendons" so it's nothing too serious. Just need to make sure I don't overuse it again.