The painting mistake

I’ve never seen the sea of my country in person, I was a small child when we left. But i’m sure it is beautiful despite its ghosts. Just as the sky looked marvellously bejewelled every night despite the devastation below it. 

I attempted to capture the essence of the sea of my home in an acrylic painting using a photo for reference:

I think it was going well until I introduced a little burnt umber towards the bottom (this was intended to mimic seaweed visible below water), and then I completely wrecked the shore, so much so that I cut it off the page and threw it away instantly! A quiet beginning quickly turned into a little disasterous painting session, but I can always cut this strange burnt umber portion off too if I can’t salvage it (I probably won’t be able to). 

There is still a pair boats left to paint, but I grew tired. 

I have a mountain of books waiting to be read, a list of things to do, it’s sad how quickly predilections fade, like they never existed.

The universe hastens somewhere, I feel a change of pace. And i’m getting old, and things have changed, and everything begins with an ending already in motion, and everything goes where they’re waited, in the end. Today is today, and we’ve lived. Tomorrow is beyond the horizon, just shadows away, and life? 

New ventures 

Strange times. As the days pass, strange meets strange, becomes stranger. And we carry on just the same.

I’ve been just the same, thankfully, maybe a little uneasy, but nothing beyond my usual trepidations. It is becoming increasingly difficult to not worry about things outside the scope of my control, there is so much to simply witness, but I want to take care of everything and all must be well, ideally.

Despite everything, there is a lot bringing me joy and I still appreciate living life on this turbulent plantet. We can do better, I know, there is a lot wrong with many things in the world, but I will do my part and hope. It’s a coping mechanism you see, better this way than to wallow in the current state of things.

Recently, I dug out a tin of colouring pencils I once bought and forgot about, I wanted to try my hand at a proper coloured drawing for once in my life, and so I did. Although I still believe a good charcoal drawing can really capture the sentiments and spirit of a moment like nothing else (I’m just not particularly good), there’s just something so effervescent and full about a drawing with colour! And I may seem silly like I’ve just discovered colour but I really just have (in relation to drawing). It was always something I wanted to try, like painting, but I’ve always been exceptionally afraid of attempting to paint anything. Maybe I will try that too, I have some acrylics somewhere. It’s good to venture beyond ones comfort zone.

Sunset on sea
Northern lights

I still have some work to do on the reflections in the water in the second, maybe some stars and streaks of white in the second drawing? It’s a little cartoony but I shall see how it goes, if it even goes.

Circumventing reason

I seem to have lost my way
my assurances faltered to this questionable place
I have everything I need
and nothing
Not one calm breath is granted in this place of perturbation
unspoken notions
I’ve forgotten how to speak easily
burning on the edge of tomorrow
I seem to last forever here
There is a labyrinth to negotiate when it’s time to speak
I have nothing to say
and everything

The mood is different

The Rain

Chopin’s nocturne started to play in C minor as I began to pull over, and the rain slowed to whispers. There were no sounds of traffic, no passing lights, not even the wind moved. the rain beat on the glass and something in me felt disconnected, a little unworldly, lonesome. The world stood still, crepuscular and delicately poised in the background of a memory, a problematically perennial engulfing little memory.

The Journey

In a bookstore, a museum, on a rainy day through the windowpane of a cafe – on a chair, on the train, on the platform in the dark, on the bus, on the elevator: a traveller, a coffee connoisseur, a historian, a revolutionary man with many things to say who spoke a lot. He had a face with a face, and eyes that burned. I was tired.

The Mood


The mood is different. The leaves have all fallen. We seek solace in different ways. There is nothing but quietened birds and quieter rain, the darkness grows more pronounced.

At the culmination, will you fight or fly? Far away the air is warmer, the trees are green, evenings pink and quiet, there is a little decency far away. There is hum of distant traffic and no accountability.