I went to the Zoooo. My friend struggled with parking devices.
Adorable killing machines were seen. Bemused and mildly irritated
mooing rang out. Good times were had by some.

I was hoping to post a better quality pic, but this is what I have for the time being. Life is imperfect as usual.

“Untitled”

16 x 18”

Watercolor, Ink

At my most despondent and at times, suicidal, I have a habit of self-portraiture. It’s one of the rare instances when my mind goes silent and my internal processing works on a non-verbal level.

In the depths of my struggle, I will observe my features dispassionately. I look at my bone structure, the tilt of my head, the angle of my eyebrows, the way the tears meld with the oil from my makeup. I stare into my eyes, recording the icy blue tone of iris contrasted with the bloodshot pinks of blood vessels swollen from recent use. Despite the fact that I am looking at my reflection, the eye contact is intense and uncomfortably intimate, seemingly non-consensual. It’s so intense that it carries a vague feeling of self harm and destruction, but it’s completely devoid of anger or self-pity. Devoid of everything. Still feeling, but not thinking. No narrative, no guilt, no regret, no hope, no ambition, no thinking about what I should be doing or will be doing or what I just did.

Just seeing, drawing, painting.

Woman Sleeping at Central Library in Large Fur Coat

bottom one from nice dark belgium film still, top two from the bus

randos

sketchbook comic from V-day. valentine’s day is the worst

The people in the middle are not the same people I was writing about, despite their central position on the page. The guys in the middle were HVAC dudes talking about family type things, and I didn’t spend my energy hating them the way I did for the businessmen. The hands - that’s where the story is.

I went to this bar near one of the museums in New Orleans just off the Central Business District, behind the Federal District court building. I was sitting next to super business-type businessmen. They were so into their spiel they seemed like caricatures of themselves, like villains from an 80s movie. They kept talking about “associates” and “marketing” and who should be doing better or worse than they were actually doing in life according to their education or former career path. I think one guy was in the process of interviewing at the other guy’s workplace, so they were kind of networking/schmoozing/talking shop. 

The prospective employee was dressed business casual, but the other guy was decked out in an expensive looking grey suit and a giant gold watch that looked to me like a recipe for carpal tunnel. The besuited gentleman’s gestures made it seem as if his entire life was a powerpoint presentation, hands carefully posed at all times.

They eventually noticed me eavesdropping and writing, which excited the yet to be employed guy. Golf shirt was hoping that my writing would somehow bring him fame, while the suit was clearly a bit apprehensive. “You’re not tape recording us, are you?”, he asked me.

“No, no, just writing”, I lied. 

Not having any real understanding of their topics, I decided to ask them what an associate was, hoping to glean some basic knowledge. I was bored and figured I would be able to hear their conversation regardless, so I might as well participate. It’s also a world that I have never really been a part of and despite my distaste, I was genuinely curious. Unfortunately, their answers didn’t really tell me anything. Apparently, business associates investigate profitability, mergers, acquisitions, and participate in raising capitol. But they don’t actually research profits (that’s a numbers guy thing), present the information, or find the businesses for mergers or acquisitions. I still have no idea what they actually do, but I get the impression that they do it for a lot of hours of their lives.

twilight view from a punk house, complete with power lines/cables of some sort that I am still obsessed with.