It always seems to be a small world.

While hanging out with my father he showed me a picture he had taken of three trees clumped together. He told me that he had forgotten where he had taken it, but I remembered it was at some back road from Roundup. The back road was actually a hiking trail that transcended slowly down a cliff. Amazing sights of the things below, like a motocross track. As we went along I saw a tree that I felt a need to take a picture of. It looked somewhat like a Playmobile tree of something in the Amazon. Large with bright green shades of leaves to be painted in Rococo paintings. I hurried ahead to find that perfect angle in which to shoot it, but as my shot became more and more blocked I quickly found out that the hiking trail ended by going into someone’s house. Turns out that it was the house of someone I knew from back in my grade school days and I had been on fairly good acquaintances with his father. Somewhat of an awkward hello as I attempted to explain that I was trying to take a picture of his tree, but he just chomped down on his pipe and welcomed me with open arms. Then offered some of his homemade plum wine he put in glass 40s.

His son then came home (I couldn’t seem to remember his name, but remembered him all the same. I believe he was still in high school after all this time and was just years younger than me) and scrapped off part of the original label of the 40, because something was muttered about it being confusing. Then his girlfriend and her mother came over and it turned out that his girlfriend was this girl I had slept with while living in Seattle and haven’t been on good terms with since. We exchanged awkward hellos and I then started to hurry out of there, especially seeing that all of the adults that had started showing up were all undressing for whatever kind of party this was turning into. I drank some of the plum wine and hurried through the upper floors and across the bridge to get back to the hiking trail where I found my father.

I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with my contacts still in.

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Windy Coffee. [part 1]

Fulya was looking at my sketchbook the other day and remarked that she liked the random sketch that I had made of some girl that I saw walking along with a little plastic cup of coffee during the wind storm a few weeks past. As I still have some small pieces of very good watercolor paper [that I had sized to be used for some small frames I had collected but did not have anything to put in them yet], I thought that perhaps I could transfer a little sketch to a little piece of paper to play with techniques. Namely the layering of water colors. Something that I know I have been working on a lot, but practice makes perfect. I also wanted to see how using my new mechanical pencil filled with blue graphite would work in hiding my lines as I initially worked. I forgot to take a picture of the transition between not having the girl inked at all to inking her and starting the background. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a setting in which to put her. At first I was th

French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.

The adventure continues.

So, I haven't written much lately.. but from the doldrums of the end of semester I then entered a time period of a flânerie across France. A last hurrah. Jessye came to visit again and the tiny room was packed up all into a few suitcases, the largest being named Bertha, and Rennes was left behind, although not before having a picnic in Thabor for the last Saturday market... We got the essentials. Madeleines (where as I reached the front of the line the vendor greeted me with a question of, '6 madelines?') with a few more of that vendor's delicious delights, like those bite size rolls with jams and caramel and chocolate.. Then of course the impossible cow cheese that acted like goat cheese and was rolled in Provencal herbs. And of course a baguette from the amazing bakery covered in tiles. A trip to Thabor with Jessye was never complete without a stop at the aviary. And some people watching. A mohawked punk rocker walks a little girl hand in hand through the park.

High Contrast Grey.

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