attendance cards

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Spent the morning on side projects – more detailed post coming in a bit – and, among them, started Lynda Barry's MAKING COMICS – which has already given me a new thing – her Attendance Card exercise - for this space:

We begin each class by drawing a self portrait in response to a prompt. We draw for the length of a song I've chosen, about 3-4 minutes. I ask that you draw without stopping for the entire length of the song and include your face and entire body." (p42)

This first one took a bit of liberty with her rules (this took longer than four minutes and I cocked up the date/name order), but the next ones will follow those rules, more or less (will use a timer instead of a song because that would be another choice I have to make and I have a thousand 3x5 index cards from an earlier consideration instead of the class-required 4x6s that I need to use). Prompts, not sure. Handdrawn status updates. Will do these at the start of the work day and publish without text or title beyond my zk dating; any text pieces will be written throughout the day.

Who knows if this will become a regular thing or if this is just a passing enthusiasm - but it's, so far, a wonderful alternative to more writing to get the brain in a writing mode for the day's work. All Attendance Card comics can be found, eventually, in the Attendance Card tag.

Yuni Yoshida – ELPIS

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Was immediately drawn this glitchy art for ELPIS (sounds intriguing; hopefully it lands on one of the streamings soon) when I first heard about the show sometime last week. Thanks to Spoon & Tamago, I learned that I wasn’t looking closely enough: those aren't digital glitches. As a result, I’m presently obsessed with the work of art director Yuni Yoshida. Amazing stuff.

colorful dispensary stickers etc

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The Morkie officially has her own little container for her required pill containers and cream vials. Fantastical to-dos updated accordingly: combined with my 4-7 T1D demands and two-pill happy pill regimen, her two things x2 (antibiotics) and one thing (puppy prozac) once should let me qualify for pharmacy training and/or a colorful sticker. Vet isn't worried and suspects it's just a wound. Take pills, apply cream, wait and see. I want my sticker.

I'm sure there's more on my mind but whatever there might be is escaping me at present. Here's my Mastodon handle - @twweaver@mastodon.social - because I fled Muskville, at least for now: if I'm going to witness a trainwreck, I'd rather not be laying on the tracks.

(UPDATED) The Morkie's rage and other veterinary adventures

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Took The Morkie to the vet to see if there was anything to explain her recent transformations into a wolverine/piranha hybrid (three weeks of seemingly unprovoked attacks on Puppers after getting pissed at Derbz). Doc couldn't find anything physical, prescribed puppy prozac; as we had to go through a pharmacy, we got an amusing call from CVS about updating The Morkie's insurance information. Clearly she's our dependent, but.

(Yes, the The in The Morkie is capitalized; she is The Ohio State University of 13-pound tyrants.)

Noticed on the way home that she was, occasionally, not wanting to put her left hind leg on the ground. Examined and found what looks like a split growth-abcess-infection-blister-who-the-fuck-knows-because-it-could-be-anything-and-everything on her paw pad. Took a pic, sent it to docs: should hear later this morning; planning on another visit in. Efforts underway to not catastrophize (while it doesn't look like it's growing ON the pad but from it, as part of it, leading me to think it's more injury than tumor, I'm nonetheless prepared for the solution to be anywhere from "wait and see" to antibiotic cream and wrapped paw (or booty) to radiation and/or amputation; this being sort of the "check engine" light of Morkies). Going pretty well: if nothing else, we know that her aggressions aren't necessarily because she's a shit and that there is, clearly, something behind them.

I still have to look up how to spell piranha.

"must i write?"

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Current fear: that I used up and exorcised all of my stores of anger and rage and things unsaid in LAST CHRISTMAS and that I needed that anger and rage to fuel and fill the well of what passes for my writing practice. Maybe that's true, maybe not. My wife said to me last night, as she sought to calm my frayed hyperventilations, "but you love writing,” to which I said:

"No, I don't."

It's the first time I've ever said it (aloud) and I know I'm at least somewhat correct. To love an inextricable – for better or for worse – part of myself is a fool's errand: there are days when it's my breath and there are days when it's nothing more than another chronic, incurable autoimmune disorder that I'll have with me until the day I die: I'm not sure that you can love something that's such a part of you that it's become another limb, another part of you that makes you you.

To quote Tina Turner, "What's love got to do with it?"

Thinking this morning of Rilke's first letter in LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET:

"You are directing your thoughts outwards, and that above all is what you should not do at present. No one can advise and help you. No one. There is only one way. Withdraw into yourself... ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night, 'Must I write?' Dig deep into yourself for an answer. And if this answer should be in the affirmative, if you can meet this solemn question with a simple strong 'I must,' then build up your life according to this necessity. Your life right down to its most indifferent and unimportant hour must be a token and a witness to this compulsion."

I must.

i am ready to go back to bed

in

Rain continues and portends a DerbzBall-deficient day ahead but on the bright side I might have gotten somewhere in one of the Things: this is the morning's victory, so far. Shifting schedules a bit in an effort to make my day less clumpy– or am, perhaps, simply without anything valuable to contribute to the world in text-based form; if that’s the case let this casting into the ether live here in this little space of mine carved with a plastic spoon in the dollar store soap that is the internet.