Scream

A scream.

Into the world.

Through the curtain of air and atmosphere that surrounds the physical form of a life. Our bodies are vessels that carry a whirlwind of emotion. Our bodies are purely things, and we are the life that hums through our cells.

Vibrations through the earth and through our bodies and from our mouths to our ears, all the way to our minds.

A life is only a life because other lives are living to see it so.

The classroom was lit with four tubes of florescent, cold, white light. It’s harsh blue tone filled corners and silently combatted the deep, dusty yellow that filtered in through the layers of dust on the window. Dust that reappeared the moment you cleaned it, settling sleepily into the damp smear your cloth made on the glass, so that the next time you cleaned it would be hard and clumped to the glass in that stubborn, Arabian way.

The teacher, in a sari and bright pink lipstick wrote words on the board with a fading whiteboard marker, and I was disinterested. English as a second language, in a class full of second language speakers. English is my native tongue. I think in English. My mother speaks English and my father lectures non English speakers in the art of speaking English, and the nuances of phonetic English, the harsh science of linguistic English. I was bored out of my skull.

A blank paper on the desk in front of me. Ridges created by pens digging deep into the wood, small signatures of years of educational boredom. I pick up my pen and start to scribble. A shape forms under my pen, the lines scratchy as the pen tries to deviate and follow the texture of the desk beneath the thin paper.

A figure, with a long, skeletal face. Large, black oval eyes, the scribbles in circle formation to fill the holes. No pupils, just blackness. No nose. Jutting cheekbones, and a mouth open wide. A pair of hands, with long, bony fingers, on the cheeks. A hood, covering any hair, and the sleeves hanging out over the thin wrists.

The mouth releases a scream, loud and raging in my head. A scream to rattle the obstinate dust on the windows, a scream to make my sari-wearing teacher stare at me in shock. A scream to explode from my lonely soul and shoot through the thick air around me, humming with breath and eye contact and whispers and heartbeats and sweat and particles of skin and life. 

I don’t scream. I let my picture do it for me. I put my pen down and stare at my scream for a long time, until the black lines of my drawing start to pop out starkly on the white paper, and the light around me dims in my vision. Until my eyes are watery.

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Procrastination.

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I drew. Damian tidied up my rough edges and colour spillage. I’m the messy one, he is neat and meticulous. It was 3am. We were drunk on fatigue. Saturday night, laptop screens illuminating the room with poorly constructed sentences about topics neither of us cared about. We spent forty minutes drawing procrastinating.

There is something so divine and therapeutic about lazing about and drawing, taking turns together, knowing full well there are assignments to be submitted by 7pm tomorrow.

The house is dark and still. There is complete silence, save for the tap tapping of the pencil on the screen.

Doodle

 

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courtesy of yours truly

This is my messy drawing that I did on the iPad. I did it lying down on the bed, the iPad leaning on my knees. D sent it to my laptop unfinished though, but he really seemed to like it, even though it was just a doodle and a mess. He helped me a little bit, colouring in the detail on the roof on the far right, filling the car in with pencil and creating the rays for the sun.

I am really enjoying creating little doodles on the iPad. If I don’t like how something turns out, I can just erase it, which makes life so much easier.

D said he reckons I should do the illustrations for the posts on my blog. He doesn’t read my blog, because he can’t read to save his life, but he has noticed that I like to choose paintings to go with my words. He is very visual.

Well, he can read, but he just finds it mighty difficult, because he is dyslexic. I sometimes read his letters out to him or read some news articles he finds interesting.

Things aren’t so great, really, today. I have cried a lot, and my eyeballs are stinging. Old ghosts have been resurrected between my mum and I, and I have been very selfish in the past, and she can’t seem to let it go, and remembering all the horrible things is making me very upset and sad and uncomfortable. I think I will take her out on Monday so we can have a decent chat about it all. I am a bad daughter, and am not very good to my family. I need to be better.

Drawing with Technology

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I drew that on an iPad. My husband ordered the new one and it was released today, but don’t ask me what it’s called because I don’t know about all those things. All I know is that  so I took the shiny white pencil and decided to do some drawing. It’s a botchy attempt, and the shading is messy, but the experience was therapeutic. It really motivated me to draw more, and I will go so far as to say it is a better experience than drawing on paper.

It’s like magic, and you have all the functions and tools accessible to you straight away, no need to sharpen a pencil or go round hunting for the dark green (I lost my tube of dark green and it took three months to find it hidden behind the daffodils in my mum’s garden, don’t ask me how it got there!); it’s all there and all you have to do is do a little tap with your pencil and boom.

Drawing with it feels like I’m using brand new tools, and there are no glitches like you would expect with these technological devices.

I did that on a freaking iPad!?!? I can’t believe it. Am I gushing? Probably. I don’t care. It’s all perfectly, smoothly digital, yet so LIKE real pencils and the visual texture of the background is like really high quality paper, and technology has come so far, and growing up and experiencing its rapid change is simply magnificent and wonderful and I can’t wait to see what else they are going to come up with.