A Ten-Minute Dream in the Passenger's Seat

Last night I slit open a pack of canvas panels. They're small, nine by twelve inches, and since I grid in half inches, usually, I'll call them eighteen by twenty-fours. I've found that canvas panels are generally just a few millimetres shorter than what they're meant to be. Something to do with the size of the canvas wrapping over the cardboard or somesuch nonsense.
I'm also thinking about doing some arbitrary studies of hands, since I'm so useless at them. I mean, the new study I'm doing involves hands...but one of them is a bit deformed, so I don't think it qualifies. It's more of an abstract shape. Gah. I love hands. They're such beautiful things. And I've been seeing some lovely hands lately. Anyhow.
I think pretty much the only thing I ramble about is art on this blog, really. I don't talk about personal issues or things that are happening to me, because really, who wants to hear that? It's like...someone said something to me a bit ago about how they felt like they'd not been getting any sleep, even though they'd been having a good seven or eight hours a night, and my first reaction (both because I'm a heartless scoundrel, and because I'd not yet had any tea that morning) was, 'who bloody cares?'
That is why I don't ramble on about my personal life, and also because (see above), I am a heartless scoundrel. Erm. Oh, but I do post some very personal poetry, and I think that qualifies. Speaking of which, I do have a piece that no one has seen, ever, but I have read it to a friend over the telephone. I wrote it haaages ago, and I'm sure it has something to do with Ockers.

Brindling, like a fascist child,
I wear the uniform of love,
The barest hint of subtle sweet,
The faintest hum of music.

And o, the wounded sounds you make
When for you I sigh in fear,
If time were ours, how we would feast
On one another's bones.

You are the silk of palm fronds,
Sleek and barbed across my mouth.
A hook, a charm you gave to me
To fletch for you, as I saw fit.

We cut our time in half, for pride,
We chased our own false smiles.
I never gave you more than love,
You never knew the difference.
(finis)

Gosh, I need to learn to be more subtle, don't I? Also, to stop using open quatrains to do my dirty work. I don't know, rhyming seems so pretentious to me, even though I was once really good at unusual rhymes, despite the fact that I used a whole arseload of assonance.
Also, I really, deeply dislike Latin. It's an ugly language. I don't care who says what, it has never sounded anything beside overheady and sepulchral. Honestly! 'Haerebantque in comintante sedebam' blah blah it sounds wretched. It's an ugly language.
Furthermore, I don't really know if I like English, either. Not spoken, anyway. It looks lovely written down, all those curved letters prancing out of my pen so joyfully and meaningfully. You can represent so much in writing, the steadiness of your hand, the slant of your letters. Unfortunately, I need to write sideways because otherwise my handwriting slants left, but that's just a habit from training my hand to lie outside my paper when I'm drawing, so it doesn't smudge. Speaking English has proved to be a near impossibility. I find myself drowning in a phrase that should be simple to speak, but I have made it odious to myself, and others have made it mean nothing. I can't even say some things when I am alone. And I'm talking about ordinary words, nothing sacreligious or any such nonsense. I mean simple things, which are simlpe to type or write. I can't express myself for fear of drowning people.
I blame all those little footnotes in the dictionary saying 'obsolete.' I also blame Gary Oldman, but only because I just happen to be a bit mad for him at the moment. Guh. Cobalt blue and Payne's grey eyes.
Damn him.