There will be no sleeping here tonight.

There will be no sleeping here tonight.

There is a feeling I get only when listening to Pink Floyd. It isn’t the feeling of depression, nor is it infinite. It isn’t a rock that steeps in my stomach, but it isn’t quite butterflies either. My eyes don’t become wide with shock and shivers, my heartbeat doesn’t swell or quicken, and my hands remain in their cold, desolate state. However, there is a distinct difference in my disposition, there is a difference under my skin, and I can only explain it to be a returning nostalgia. A rue-some emotion, that screams in my most inner plane of existence to be noticed when Floyd’s music hits my eardrums.

I feel alone. Every time, without fail, I can’t help but feel as though I’m the only human left on earth, desolation, retirement. It leaks from my face to my toes, there is no high quite like it, like young Jean-Baptiste Grenouille I allow myself to absorb the moment, the feeling, until I’ve overflown with it.

I had a dream the other night, and as someone who catalogues their dreams I wasn’t about to forget this one. I was in a war, everything around me was black, blue and white, I saw no men, no dogs, and heard no sound, but I knew exactly where I was because of the cold, metal gun resting in my palm. I remember very accurately that this item was cold, I couldn’t make out what was the gun and what was my hands, because their temperature had melded, but it didn’t matter because that didn’t stop me from firing the weapon at will and wish.
I shot down a bird, the next image was clear and crisp, realistic in the sense that the space around me had become fundamental, it was finally a battleground and I was finally a solider. I took the bird to a nearby oven, I hadn’t eaten in days, I slipped on a gas mask and tossed the bird into the fire. Soon there was an explosion and I was thrown backward, -my spine tingled with fruitless attempts of protecting itself- my back was broken and I tried to scream. I couldn’t. The gas mask had become my face and I wanted to claw it off, it was suffocating me, it was consuming me, everything that was me, I knew that if I didn’t vacate myself from it I would die, there wouldn’t be anything left to carry out my orders. I couldn’t lift my arms, the mask slowly began to melt my flesh and bone, I felt it burrow into my brain.

Waking from this I realized my limbs had all fallen asleep, and there was a dull pain in my lower back from twisting it so harshly in my fitful slumber. When I finally had the ability to move my body, I rested my head in my hands, letting a tide drag me under. This undertow felt bitter, angry, and frustrated. It was resentful and spiteful, and I wanted to drown in it that morning. I remembered scenes at first by importance, the bird’s face – so incredibly detailed and sad -, the explosion, the gun in my hands…but soon I let the details go and held on to the essence of the dream. I wrote it down soon after.

The feeling a veteran gets when he recalls unfriendly fire on a battlefield, the feeling a mother gets when she recalls she outlived her son, the feeling a twin gets when they think about their dead or lost sibling, the feeling of indescribable loss; Pink Floyd encompasses the essence of that, and the portal created through the notes and chords gives me a chance to see what those woes feel like. And perhaps I’m sick for thinking that I can imagine what such regrets are like, perhaps I’m naive and uncouth. I sincerely apologize to those who think I am, but I really don’t think I’m far off from knowing.

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Pipes, protrusions, proper madness.

Pipes, protrusions, proper madness.

Madness indeed, this is the first painting project of the semester, and I have to say I’ve grown very fond of it. We had a rough start, Pipey and I, but eventually we worked our differences out over hours of sharing blood, sweat, and oils. Although, I must say, it really is a one-sided relationship, I feel as though I’m merely a pawn in this production, I really have no idea how this painting came around looking so damn smashing. It does photograph better, in my opinion, than seeing it in person, simply because the colours are much, much richer in the pictures I’ve taken, but honestly I’m rather moved by how stunning the palette turned out. This was a huge leap of faith, I’ve never worked extensively with oil paint, so I was terrified to start this piece. However, when I went through the five stages of mourning I realized that it wasn’t so bad, actually, it was really quite fun to manipulate the forever-wet oil paint, and I think that’s why I’ve come to such terms with this piece in general, I genuinely had fun re-learning how to paint (basically) and that’s why I appreciate the end-product so much. The critique for this project is tomorrow, so we’ll see how much my class likes it, I’m hoping as much as I do or my poor, ginger-diseased spirit might just wither.

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Jockeys aren’t just zombies.

Jockeys aren't just zombies.

Well, how exhilarating, one of the few sketches in which my signature has been cataloged. I never seen to sign them close enough…
Well, this is a page that amused me quite a bit, while a visiting artist, John Hendrix, actually, was critiquing some of my peer’s artwork, I was scribbling away in my mini sketchbook in proper fury because I didn’t have any projects on the wall for him to look at ((naturally, as I live four hours from my school, this is a general problem for me)). This somewhat combined the style I absorbed when looking at his work ((which, if you haven’t looked at Mr. Hendrix’s collection, I suggest you do, it’s wonderful)) as well as a reflection of feeling frustrated. Looking back on it now, though, I find it quite a hilarious image, perhaps I’ll redraw it and do something decent with it~

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Little more than plasmids and plaster.

Little more than plasmids and plaster.

Oh boy, here we go, apparently it’s that time again.
“What time, Sam?”
The time in which I’m supposed to do very large projects for my classes, however I decide impromptu that I’ll be doing something else. My excuse? So I don’t stress over my projects at hand. What’s funny about this is that my side projects tend to be more extreme and take more time to complete. Well, aside from the illogical notions this undoubtedly raises, my side project as of now is creating my own BioShock splicer mask~

I chose to do the “beak” (bird) first, because I couldn’t find and plain mache cat masks as to do the kitty and “ears”(bunny). The first step I’ve taken is to fashion a make-shift beak from cardboard paper and tape. All great things begin with cardboard and tape, really, I swear.

I’m still fitting the beak the way I want to the face, I’ll probably make it a little narrower before I attach it completely, and then that’s when the plaster gets involved. I’ll update when I complete the next step.

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Six is the best number

Six is the best number

And occasionally I do likenesses, well, only those I thoroughly enjoy. This is the Sixth Doctor incarnation, from classic Doctor Who, as portrayed by Colin Baker, and he by far seems like one of the most interesting regenerations of the Doctor. He is described to be overly outgoing and obnoxious, which is seen with his lovely choice of attire, and he is actually said to be somewhat of a mix between a new personality and the First Doctor, where wariness and suspicion comes into play during his interactions with humans.

I really hope to find the episodes with the Sixth, I’m sure it would make my year~

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