snaps

Update/202410131611 :: it went about as well as expected - though I didn’t manage to free up storage space for shelves shelves shelves.

Slightly dreading the afternoon today: have to go through some my grandfather's old pictures to find some good ones for The Bank's 125th anniversary calendar. He was an inveterate snapshot taker, so it shouldn't be too hard to find something to sate the celebrants; no, it's more a matter of not looking forward to looking back.

On the plus side, however, by doing this, I should manage to clear space from the upstairs room and make way for the next set of storage shelves to move up there. Shelves, shelves, shelves.

But before any of that, Sunday Mexican food and tankard of beer consumption. Liquid courage to pour through the past to get to my shelves.

Convinced that one of the reasons I keep shaving my head is I really don’t like drawing hair for the Attendance Cards.

Today: a new Informality comic published and the second (of ???) story sent to my good friend for our album collaboration. NuShed’s proving a worthwhile investment.

flooring, ctd.

My grandfather wouldve been 98 today (though 96 good years and two royally shitty months of 97 are a solid record; we should all be so lucky) and, with the exception of one row by the door area – on the docket today, along with floor trim which I'll be sourcing from the already-stained pieces of what was once the first desk I built –, that fucking floor (its official name) is in NuSanctum: if hell is, indeed, a thing, and I'm sentenced there, my own personal slice of it will consist of me having to do flooring for eternity while my mercifully long-dead stepfather attempts to impart life lessons via radio-blasted high school sports metaphors in that fucking swamp-creature-love-child-of-Jimmy-Carter-and-Jimmy-Stewart voice of his. And with that visual, I leave you to your day.

A clarity of creative direction emerges.

Thinking that the best (only?) way out of my creative doldrums (this one being a weird – or maybe not-so? –  combination of overwhelmed and under-fueled) is to declare creative bankruptcy and start from scratch: with the exception of previously-made commitments, everything else gets shunted to the backburner and I approach my practice as if I were starting right now, right this minute, embrace that whole beginner's mind thing (again).

Tried hair again, didn’t like it. Back to shorn noggin.

It's been almost a year since I buzzed my hair and now that I'm letting it grow back it's a reminder of what a pain in the ass my hair was.

Not sure which switch clicked or what happened, but, for the first time since my grandfather died in November (or longer, if I’m being honest with myself), I’m feeling something resembling an honest, visceral excitement for my creative practice and efforts.

Today’s operative phrase: why do I fucking bother?