I would love to tell you something new. Something relevant. Something exciting. But I haven't got anything new, necessarily, that will entertain you. I've been writing like a maniac, all manner of things, but I can't seem to get a piece of fictional poetry out of my head.
O, dear my lord,
Let this breast
Upon which you have leant
Serve now as your shield.
If that's even how it goes. That, and Israfel. I contemplated writing a myth with a bunch of symbolism concerning the divinity of the feminine, but I flaked out of it cause I don't believe women are divine. Or that any gender is, essentially, divine, in any other way beside the fact that we were fashioned divinely. But that is honestly neither here nor there.
No, what I want to talk to you about is Andrew Motion. Current Poet Laureate, whom I have very mixed feelings about. On the one hand, I admire his work. It's literal, personal, technical in a way that is difficult to use when employing open verse. He managed to make the epitaph of the Queen Mother not at all grandiose or distant, but something everyone could relate to. I think he signifies a lot that is right in the world of poetry, and a lot that isn't. There is no longer any pretension in the idea of divine right of monarchs, and they are sent out of the world with the same sort of affection as someone else's mother is. But still, read this. And tell me. It's called Ice.

When friends no longer remembered
the reasons we set forth,
I switched between nanny and tartar
driving us on north.

Will you imagine a human hand
welded by ice to wood?
And skin when they chip it off?
I don’t think you should.

By day the appalling loose beauty
of prowling floes:
lions’ heads, dragons, crucifix-wrecks,
and a thing like a blown rose.

By night the seething hiss
of killers cruising past -
the silence after each fountain-jet,
and our hearts aghast.

Of our journey home and the rest
there is nothing more to say.
I have lived and not yet died.
I have sailed in the Scotia Sea.

Atlantic

I shall never marry Ted Hughes,
Not for old, red love
Or bright, blue money
Or fickle fame.

I shall never grieve with Seamus Heaney,
Not with salt tears,
Or bitter smiles,
Or sweet songs.

Instead, I shall laugh with the chevalier of
Hals,
Shall render Ranuccio as the Baptist,
And give of my unbleached titanium hair
To Medusa, whose fate was purest satire.

And walk, with Behemoth, on both my hind
legs,
And dance with Toulouse-Latrec--
No need to bend double,
I am already so, so small.

With Israfel sing, for I am young
And alive, and hoarfrost is strange to me.
My hair, strong and black
And still short as a boy's;

With all of my joy I will be
Young, for as long as is needful.
And then I will twine
Myself in his wedding-gown doom.
(finis)
Friday, 22 February, 2008
9h0am

Pacific

I am your Endymion
O, my Selene--
Undying and beautiful
As you commanded.
I wait, my eternal sleep
A thing of the past.
A fragile thing,
Broken, for how could it last?

Yet she, so golden and so fair,
Entwined in Apollo's light
So bright and dead,
Is yet a dish of apples in a crust--
With caramel sweetened is her breath,
With my longing flavoured,
Beauty-crisp in glory found.

O, but my lady is a Lazarene,
The fair flame-bird
Burnt in Oriental spices,
Forever, like me, to slake her hunger
Upon my bovine backbone.
But she is my weight to bear,
And mine alone--
In yielding to you,
I am resilient as stone.
(finis)
Thursday, 21 February, 2008
7h01 pm

Self Affirmation is Bollocks

Now, I hate to have obscenities in my blog title, but it is. Really.
Go ahead. Try it.
Go look in the mirror, and tell yourself that you're a strong, capable man/woman who doesn't need (insert addiction/vice/unwanted thing here).
The trouble is, if you really were strong and capable, you wouldn't BLOODY NEED SELF AFFIRMATION!!!
*sighs, catches breath*
You're going to have to excuse me. It's been raining, I've been depressed, and sleeping too much. Sleep is bad. I mean, oversleep is bad. And I've just had a marvellous cup of Irish breakfast tea, and I've been writing prose. Good, solid prose, with really enjoyable characters with flaws and things I hate and love about them.
No, they'll never see the light of day. But yes, they rawk.
Hard.
Okay I'm going to go now. No, I won't stay and cuddle.
Go affirm yourself.
Loser.

Me Too! Me Too!

Apparently, this is so much an epidemic that they had to make a tea towel out of it. Damn. My initiation was about three nights ago. In my defense, he was naked, yes, but standing on a dais in contrapposto in some marvellous light which really brought out the nice richness of his skin, with some fantastic Tyrian purple and terre vert drapery behind him, and holding a very yellow apple.
As Benedict would say, 'There's a double meaning in that.' Though, really, the thought of a bucknude Daniel Craig taking time out of his undoubtedly busy schedule to provide me with live reference is really, really a lovely thought, though I almost would rather Adrian Brody.
Don't hurt me, ladies. Really. Mr. Craig looks like a frog, but he has fantastically lovely malamute-pup eyes, and, yes, even my eyes went a little glazed when he minced out of the ocean in Casino Royale wearing a pair of barely-there skivs. Yes, I do own a libido, thankyouverymuchly. But still. Adrian Brody. Honestly. Tall and lean and brown-eyed, and cerebral-looking. Or Jason Isaacs.
*eyes glaze*
Oh, deep-fried calendula blossoms!
*slaps self*
Erb. I wanted to say something useful.
I'm working on the Lavertezzo painting again, as well as contemplating opting out of this whole grisaille business. It's not quite as intimidating as a full colour portrait, but it's a double portrait, and I've never painted an infant before.
Eli! Eli! Lama sabacthani!
Actually, it's not that bad. It doesn't merit crucifixion garment-tearing, or the heaping of ashes on my head. Speaking of which, I curtailed my hair. A bit. Makes me happy.
I did a little sketch, a couple evenings ago, with a little set of pastels I got myself as a shiner prize for being such a good girl, as well as a pack of about three hundred sheets of manila paper. There are two black pastels, a bistre, a terracotta (I wish they'd used sanguine instead), and white. I did a fun little sketch after Lucian Freud, a man's head, very fun expressive lines and funkeh shading. Big, amused eyes. I love the expression as it turned out, very cynical and bizarrely warm at the same time. I haven't drawn for a while with chalk, so it was entertaining.
I've been doing tons of faces, also, with pencil, ranging in detail from four-hour drawings to half-hour thumbnail sketches. Gettin' back in the groove. My next big mission is to figure out some cool art nouveau-esque border design for this Mucha copy I've just nearly finished. I have to wait till the lines are dry, though, again, because of the heavy use of copal medium to thin the paint. Buh. I'll post when she's finished. She's a gift for someone, so you can't see her yet.
Well, of course it's a she. Mucha--HELLO!
My toes have been freezing all day, but now they're wonderfully warm.
Also, the slice in my thumb has finally healed up, and I'm tentatively starting to play guitar again. God, I'm rubbish. My voice sounds fantastic, though. Swear I've lost a bit of range, though. My tones are improving, and I can project better. Probably all the yelling and cursing I've been doing at my paintings.
Buhhh.

Marble-tongued

So it's been a while since I last made a proper post. Those of you who have half a brain will know how busy I've been...meetings, more meetings, reading, studying, applying the self to evermore fascinating endeavours. Well, despite the massive attack of motion that has lately swallowed me whole, I have managed to get a couple other things done.
I also finished the central subject of the Mucha copy I was doing, and the surrounding (original) design elements will be soon forthcoming, if I can manage to sit down for long enough to dredge something up.
I had a dream about rock-climbing last night. I wasn't rock-climbing myself, I was watching about thirty boys clamber about on a cliff face, and sometimes, one of them would let themselves fall, and the others would grab him. Then I sprained my ankle.
I dreamt about pixies, too. Not The Pixies, though 'Cactus' has been tickling through my head. No...no, real pixies. The sort that feed off various human energies and will do anything to carry on feeding. The sort that fix all your problems and disappear into your rubbish bin before you can see them, really. But it was a bit of a discomfiting dream, and I won't carry on with it here.
I'm glancing over at my workspace right now, at my palette, with its unusual colours on it. I have a fun time mixing for this Mucha copy, but they're colours I rarely use. For example, I used a minty-green-blue sort of pastel colour, and I used some cad yellow dark, which, also, I don't favour, except in skintones. And I mostly emptied my tube of unbleached titanium. I'll need to run out for some more next Monday before I start my new project.
Oh! Speaking of which. I have a very ambitious project. Remember that grisaille portrait I was going on about? Well, I've started it. I gridded the photograph I'm copying it from, and gridded the canvas likewise. It's going to end up 30x26 inches, which is very convenient for me. Nice how they sell most canvases in the 'golden rectangle,' in perfect ratio. Now, if only I can find an old nautilus shell...
Oh, Lord, someone stop me. I'm on the rampage.
Yes of course. I cut my hair yesterday. It was nearly to my shoulders, in the back, and I chopped it all back up to my back hairline. All that stifling hair, gone. Lovely. I'm sure I wrote a poem at some point during the past week, but I don't think it's worth reading. But...you be the judge. Not you, Dre, you still haven't commented on my Sonnet V.

She sang for absolution
Every night after supper.
And the crazy thing about it was
That she never quite recovered,
Never saved our great nation.

I stood in the cage beside her,
Hung my hat up on a peg.
And I danced all afternoon beside her,
But I didn't draw a dime.
And I guess she deserved it.

Maybe that's just a story for another day.
Come help me burn the flag.
Come help me read the newspaper.
Help me walk,
Help me dance.

My fingertips crack
On these old metal strings.
And my heart broke with her neck,
When they sang, 'Penny for the Guy'
In the streets of London.

I've heard a lot of songs,
But never one so sad as yours,
Never one so bad as yours.
Do you think you'd mind
Performing for the Rolling Stones?

Skrep

Hang on, babe, we're going surfing!

Twelve Feet Tall

Seriously, now. Read THIS and then tell me I'm little.

Dread

When I say 'L-U-V,' you'd better believe me, L-U-V. Gimme a beer!
I'm in a bit of a quandary. Note the words 'a bit'--it's just a little one. The quandary is, how shall I bitterly ring in Valentine's day? A classic choice would be Jaëger, but I think the irony of wine would suit. Besides, it pairs well with linseed oil and violent string quartet music.
Yes, this isn't your average 'love-affairs-are-horrible-but-it-still-sucks-to-be-alone-on-V-Day' pity party, ladies and gentlefields. It's a brash, celebratory reaffirmation of the ego, that is, my singularity. And not in that annoying carnal way, either. It's the day I look my best, throw on a dress made of tissue paper, and slap some paint (talent being the most fickle love of all) exuberantly on whatever base material comes to mine. Luckily, I just reprimed a couple canvas boards, and I have one big sexy double-primed 36x24 ready.
I may consider investing in some linen. I would likely to too intimidated to touch it for a year. I've also been considering a very detailed grisaille portrait, just cause. Maybe I'll do a study after Ingres. I've been thinking about him a lot lately. I mean, I like him a lot, but sometimes he strikes me as a bit of a sellout. His technique is faultless, really. Mine isn't to say the least. Artistically, we have little in common, but I still remember Katy painting a master copy of his Odalisque in the atelier, when I was thirteen, and I loved the smoothness of everything, how the colours were faultlessly blended, but didn't assume the grey muddiness typical of overblending. I mean, he is a master for a reason.
Anyhow, if you have any good ideas, do comment, if you think I'd be interested.

Nights of Cydonia and Their Sarcasm

Mood: Silky
Listening to: Just Un Rêve, Frenchie
Reading: Descent into the Maelström, Edgar Allan Poe
Eating: Sushi
Drinking: Tall Double Toffee Nut Latte
There is so much sugar in this latte--I think my immune system is going to go into a very determined nosedive. The two shots of espresso aren't going to help my liver, either. But I am very tired.
I seem to have been tired for the past month. I don't know why, because it's only been the past couple weeks that I've gone insomniac, I'm also getting more exercise and everything. I'm meant to be hungrier and more energized, or at least better capable of deep sleep.
Maybe I've caused myself to learn on a crutch by falling asleep, for the past year, by listening to someone reading. I've blazed through FJWLs, letters, audiobooks--everything. Bah. I shall work out harder. I shall go to sleep surrounded by nothing but the sound of the wind, and my own thoughts (now there's a frightening proposition).
Anyhow, I want to whinge about something. I can't smile properly anymore. And no, I'm not talking about some ridiculous emo nonsense. I ate a rather sharp piece of toast the other morning, and nicked a slice in the corner of my lip, a little deeper than a paper cut. I can't stop running my tongue into it, which prevents it from healing, and if I smile, it cracks a little more, or at least feels like it. Anyhow, I have horrible (and completely exaggerated) visions of my cheek splitting open along the fault of this toonsy little slice, tearing my face open to the jawbone. So I'm reduced to this closemouthed smirk, which, admittedly, comes more naturally anyhow.
Also, every now and again, I have little revelations concerning just how completely bizarre some things about me are. My name, for one. Lord, but it is strange.
And I have dimples. My mum always specifically wanted a child with dimples, and voilà! She got me! In retrospect, she probably wishes she prayed down a little more respect for authority and self-restraint while she was at it, and maybe a little less narcissism, but PTL, He knows best.
But back to the subject at hand. That is, my dimples. Bugh. Yes. Well, they used to be very prominent when I was little (no cracks about my height. I'm warning you), because I had chub. But now that I'm all sleek and long-cheekboned, one has nearly disappeared, while the other only makes its presence apparent when I produce said smirk. So I had nearly forgotten about my made-to-order dimples, till someone brought them to my attention yesterday. Fortunately, they weren't daft enough to say, 'oh, look, you have dimples,' because that likely would have caused me to burst into tears for their sheer stupidity. Instead, I got a very polite, 'oh, your dimples are cute,' which caused me to restrain a tooth-baring, cheek-ripping grin (all for the best--it's terrifying), smirk politely, and thank them. To which they said, 'look, there it is again!' At which I burst, promptly, into tears.

Sonnet V

O, Bedlam, where Osiris chases
Round my cinder effigies
Emergents from inferno blazes--
Scourges them to bright frenzies,
The matron of delerium
With condor wings shall be the fleetest,
Across old, vast Ephesium
To sting the Muse who sings the sweetest.
And I, suspended 'tween the years,
Shall wield the sickle-bladed moon
Against the necks of vanquished fears,
And bravery is new-illum'd.
Ennobled by your violent rages,
My ink-stained mind adorns these pages.
(finis)
Friday, 8 February, 2008
12:50p

Read and Think!

Are you nothing more than the sum of your biological instincts?

Androgyne

The latest addition to my notorious ladyboy collection of creative works. Oh, yes, there will be pretty men. Sorry about the flash reflection. I used a buttload of thinner on the lines.

If You Squint

So I painted last night. As I said, a Beardsley repro, which I am very pleased with, in the main because it is so androgynous. I will call it Judith. Oh, man, I forgot how bloody fun minimal knifework was. Particularly when vibrating Stockholm Syndrome by Muse through my auditory canals.
Anyhow, I think I'm going to experiment with glazing with oils. I know it's the thing to do with acrylics, but what about achieving a watercolour effect with oil? I mean...I did this groovesome almost-Asian thingie for the drapery on this piece, and I bloody love how it looks. Black outline, olive green, with a heavy thinning with a copal medium. Anyhow. Nuff of that. I think I'm going to do a little series of simple art nouveau print-style paintings. Hang on to your nads, Mucha, you're next!

Aubrey on My Mind

Mood: Chemical Warfare!
Listening To: We Are Nowhere, and It's Now, Bright Eyes
Reading: The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri
Eating: The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri
Drinking: Water
Beardsley is fun to look at. That is all.
I think I will go ahead and do a study of one of his prints, but in oils, so it's smexier, and less shakeable.
It is my mum's birthday, and, as a good daughter should, I meant to go ahead and sing her praises, but I will rather say that when I'm sick, she's the only one I want around me. Anyone else I will snarl and curse and scratch their eyes out. Unless they come bearing lots of NyQuil.
"Side-effects they don't advertise
I've been sleepin' so strange.
With a head full of pesticide."
Hah.

Also, Beware

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Cutest Fights Ever

Courtesy of Scott Campbell.

Assemblage

I have recently developed a desire to paint an old woman. This is the sort of perverse feeling that creeps up on me whenever I look at Armin Mersmann's work. If you don't know who that is, Google him. You will fall hopelessly in love. He probably has the hippest taste in music of any fifty year old in the world. I don't necessarily agree with him taste, but I can't do anything but stare slack-jawed at his talent. Brat.
Concerning his work, it is, in the main, pencil (graphite) drawings on large scales, increasingly large, in fact, in a startlingly photorealistic style that took me several viewings to really appreciate, or even believe. He's mind-boggling. I would love to know how he manages to draw every single pore and wrinkle, rendering them in such brilliant contrast, but it likely has something to do with the fact that he spends about four hundred hours on a drawing that I would speed through in five or six.
Which reminds me. I haven't done a good, long-term drawing in a while. Probably has something to do with losing my xacto knife, or not owning fixatif. And my portfolio is falling apart like Satan. I've had that stroppy sky-blue folder since I was thirteen, and it has trailed me over the past three continents like a lost puppy.
Speaking of puppies, I was watching a dog show the other night. Shut up. I was. It was the only thing on the telly worth watching, sadly enough. It made me remember why I love borzois so much. Yes, they're lanky and have those irritating wedge-shaped heads, and probably shed too much, and look nervous and aristocratic, but there's something in the curl of their tails and the sensitivity in their ears that makes me adore them. I want one. I promised myself that I shall, someday, adopt a little borzoi puppy and name him Lord Ruthven.
And, to complete this post. I love the Wiggles, don't you?

A Winter's Tale

I'm on a bit of a Shakespeare kick. I remember the first one I ever had, I was thirteen, living in a flat on Le Loi Street right across the street from Ho Chi Minh City Central Park, giggling at the antics of the two Antipholus and Dromios, coming out of my Bard-induced trance every few hours to run down to Ben Thanh Market and gulp down a bowl of hot pho bo or three fresh spring rolls. I never was big on the sonnets, though my favourites are ten, twenty-seven, and forty-two. I didn't give much consideration to the ones that were popular, and I still find that iambic pentametre is exceedingly heavy handed.
But I was in the shower this morning, thinking about sonnet twenty-eight, and I could only remember about nine lines. I dropped off starting from 'I tell the day to please him, thou art bright' &c. And despite not particularly liking that sonnet, I was a bit upset. I should have a better memory than this. I remember all the lyrics from the memory book tapes, and a song was playing the other day that I haven't heard since I was seven or eight, but I remembered it verbatim. In any event, last night I watched Much Ado About Nothing, and, despite Keanu Reeves' dolorous mealymouthed woodenness, I grinned and giggled myself all the way through. Alan Rickman should have been John the Bastard. He would have been just edible. Almost as edible as when he was Colonel Brandon. But I digress.
I was feeling nostalgic for the times when I had the leisure to read for hours on end, and emerge only for food and piano lessons. I miss the people in Saigon that I loved, and it's for them that I scrounged for this little piece of pensive brilliance, despite that it is gentler than my tastes in poetry run.

Sonnet XXX
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moon,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
(finis)