this is a throw back, to celebrate moving into my new place, and the joy of having an address again, which is a wonderful thing that is often taken for granted. here is a bit of writing, let's call it an excerpt from an imaginary love letter to Stockport. Makes more sense when you're trying to make yourself inconspicuous on a back of a 384 going through Offerton at 10pm on a Friday night in summer toying with a hole in your coat, gauging the attitude of the bus driver towards the drunken man who just stepped on. and you know, just like having an address, the term "belligerent drunk" is also often taken for granted.
[slobbering adultery on the back of a golden hind
as late summer magnolia fills the air with musk
the road turns and turns,
and her head falls into his lap
a hound on top of the hill swallows the sun,
mouth open so wide you could barely believe
how hard it is to walk away.]
Also this is what I mean by the space under a building and not a room, like a tunnel but also a space directly linked to the ‘road’. Based off this one place I used to go to at night to study for the TOEFL. Tuition cost an arm and a leg but I never ended up taking that test. I took the IELTS instead. Oh well. Happy Mother’s Sunday. Be nice to mothers & yourselves!
this one has been a key moment where if the poll ended with a majority in either option 4 or 5, the story will end in the next post, originally planned for march 27th.
perhaps by coincident, but we have a tie between option 2 & 3, so we keep going. in a way, this outcome has been very comforting to me.
(previous chapter)
stillness, like an unbroken curse. your trailing limbs cut a line in the sand like a cruel finger over milky adolescent skin.
the walk seems endless. the sun never comes up and the nomad maintains an impossibly even rhythm. after a while it feels almost too natural, too comforting, as if this is exactly what you're born to do.
---
and you know, darling? you're so beautiful. you wear death like an angel drowning in a sea of stars .
have i told you i love you today? love you. love you. love you.
love you when the flesh falls off your bones and your soul leaks from the cracks in your skull.
---
you don't notice it, but the nomad starts to hum, softly at first, then louder, enough for you to make out that it isn't a melody but an airy cacophony of ringing, like bells on a fishing line in winter. and then you can taste it in the air, a pungent yet pleasant smell of burning that fills your lung with warmth.
you arch up your neck to see a field spanning as far as the eyes can see. it is lined with perfect intervals of clothing lines, on which thousands of blankets hang burning, tongues of flames licking up at the dark sky as if reaching to swallow the stars in their grasps. there is no smoke.
the nomad signals you to stop, and takes off its cloak. you observe that its body is small and smooth, like that of a child, but proportions slightly elongated and with just a hint of deformations at the joints, like a bird ripped of its wings and forced to stand. you linger on the nape of its crooked neck, and find it strangely endearing.
unperturbed by your gaze, the nomad leaves its belongings and raft by your side, and continues alone into the field of the burning blankets.
like a good dog, you lay down in the sand, waiting. your eyes glued to the fires, as their crackling smoulders soothe a fever you don't realise you have.
---
the sacrificial lamb pulled its mottling wool over your eyes
dressed you in white linens
and crossed your hands over your heart.
lamentation is for those who can afford it,
but that's alright now.
lies don't hurt when you're dead.
you lay your head on the altar
it was the best sleep you'd ever had.
---
when the nomad returns its skin smells like coal and eyes glitter like diamonds. now it gazes at you, quietly. against all odds, you feel your heart break. you want to pull it into your arms and hold it against your chest. but i won't let you do that. mine. mine. mine. you shan't hold another being unless i allow it, and i only want you to hold me.
but there is no need for us to bicker. the nomad puts a stop to all that by gently placing a light sheet over your shoulder, careful to place the flesh and entrails and are constantly spilling from you inside the fabric.
Reading the whole Impossible Nomad was an incredible experience so far. The best part is that I can't even describe what's so lovable about it. Honestly, it just makes me *feel* more than any piece of literature & media I've ever encountered. The writing is amazing.
I adore how there are aspects that aren't (or can't possibly be) explained. How the reader can't really pick out a logical explanation of anything, but that's the beauty of it. How the explanation is there's no explanation. This whole story altered my brain in a way, which I'm so grateful for. Texts like these make reading fun for me again.
I'm truly fascinated by this project and I'm sending so much love!! Keep doing your thing <3
hi anon,
i couldn't find the words to thank you enough for your kindness, this is such incredible encouragement. i am so, so very happy that you have been enjoying the tale of the nomad, especially since it is so close and personal to myself.
thanking you again and again, and to everyone who has been reading and participating in the polls so far!
couple of close-ups. tried to do this thing i read about where you hide some narratives/foreshadowing marginal details or using decorative borders as a visual device. not entirely sure if that was effective but i had a fun time drawing it so all good.
stillness, like an unbroken curse. your trailing limbs cut a line in the sand like a cruel finger over milky adolescent skin.
the walk seems endless. the sun never comes up and the nomad maintains an impossibly even rhythm. after a while it feels almost too natural, too comforting, as if this is exactly what you're born to do.
---
and you know, darling? you're so beautiful. you wear death like an angel drowning in a sea of stars .
have i told you i love you today? love you. love you. love you.
love you when the flesh falls off your bones and your soul leaks from the cracks in your skull.
---
you don't notice it, but the nomad starts to hum, softly at first, then louder, enough for you to make out that it isn't a melody but an airy cacophony of ringing, like bells on a fishing line in winter. and then you can taste it in the air, a pungent yet pleasant smell of burning that fills your lung with warmth.
you arch up your neck to see a field spanning as far as the eyes can see. it is lined with perfect intervals of clothing lines, on which thousands of blankets hang burning, tongues of flames licking up at the dark sky as if reaching to swallow the stars in their grasps. there is no smoke.
the nomad signals you to stop, and takes off its cloak. you observe that its body is small and smooth, like that of a child, but proportions slightly elongated and with just a hint of deformations at the joints, like a bird ripped of its wings and forced to stand. you linger on the nape of its crooked neck, and find it strangely endearing.
unperturbed by your gaze, the nomad leaves its belongings and raft by your side, and continues alone into the field of the burning blankets.
like a good dog, you lay down in the sand, waiting. your eyes glued to the fires, as their crackling smoulders soothe a fever you don't realise you have.
---
the sacrificial lamb pulled its mottling wool over your eyes
dressed you in white linens
and crossed your hands over your heart.
lamentation is for those who can afford it,
but that's alright now.
lies don't hurt when you're dead.
you lay your head on the altar
it was the best sleep you'd ever had.
---
when the nomad returns its skin smells like coal and eyes glitter like diamonds. now it gazes at you, quietly. against all odds, you feel your heart break. you want to pull it into your arms and hold it against your chest. but i won't let you do that. mine. mine. mine. you shan't hold another being unless i allow it, and i only want you to hold me.
but there is no need for us to bicker. the nomad puts a stop to all that by gently placing a light sheet over your shoulder, careful to place the flesh and entrails and are constantly spilling from you inside the fabric.
Happy V day and throw back to the last time i dabbled in "real literary illustration". It was an attempt to illustrate Midnight's Children with paper puppets. i was a bit obsessed with the depictions of love in the book, and found it amusing how i couldn't make my puppets "hold hands" properly.
Shadow projection of a paper-cut doll & my hand holding her.
reblogging this as i am packing my stuff to move, and part of this build has broken off, and there is a little bit of mold on a back wall. i will fix it of course, but i thought this is exactly what i wanted when the project started, and a good chance to really explain why i never sell the houses, or monetize them.
they are made almost entirely out of paper, with the exception of plant stems (cut up fishing wire) and clothes lines (sewing threads), coloured with gouache & watercolour. they should, they will, rot, and eventually fall apart and disappear. my architectural-ephemera, my houses for ghosts.
hence it would be a crime against my own humanity to make a penny out of them, even if it means i'll never be a "real artist".
Finally finished this build, I like how it turns out & it gives me a lot of ideas for what I can do with future builds.
—
if you like my blog and want to support me, I now have a Kofi and a shop
"so long, see you tomorrow.", the moon whispers and takes its leave from the sky. slowly, the stars extinguish themselves one by one. beyond the illumination of the gleaming sands, the vast darkness takes hold.
not that it matters, not to you. you sit there cradling that cursed freedom in your lap, wailing like a newborn breathing in air for the first time. are you grieving? for what? for whom?
i knew you couldn't cut it. all this talk about starting over, about how you just need a chance, how you deserve a chance. i guess it was all talk.
stop it, stop your crying and get up. get up now before it is too late. there won't be another chance. please, i'm begging you.
but you cry and cry, until the very fabric of your being peels away from itself and pools at your knees, softly but obstinately, like prayers falling to the bottom of the bed for lack of a god to go to. slowly, greedily, the sand soaks up every drop, as though it has been patiently waiting for you. you are moved that something wants you as you are. you are relieved that it is so painless. you feel at peace, at last.
when the tears stopped flowing, it dawns on you that you don't exist anymore
---
it's pitch black, but so bright.
it should be easier, but so hard.
why so tragic, darling? have you only just realised that a millenium is only romantic on paper?
i'd always told you that was the wrong way to live.
you and me and forever don't go hand in hand.
but i won't let you go, should have known that from the start.
---
and then, out of nowhere, a creature bearing the likeness of a bird, but is clearly not one, appears on a make-shift raft.
the creature is silent, but looks at you with eyes so empty you can only project a sense of beckoning onto. it holds out its hands and signals you to follow.
"...it's a long walk to the bazaar, better head off now if we are to make it by summer solstice..."
--------
finally finished the nomad's clothes & packed its wares for the bird-people pilgrimage. sorry for the back to back posts on this, i am actually packing up and moving myself, so just need tidy up some ends as things have to go into storage until i get to the new place.
here's the nomad on top of my drawer
it will have "its own place" soon, hopefully!
thank you for sticking around, we're back to normal posts after this (illustrations/models).
it's tuesday and work has been unpleasant so i made a pouch for the nomad to carry its trinkets.
as with all the bird-people, trading is most important for the nomad. there is a formula for the price (of course, even a mystic market have rules). here's an excerpt from the 37 page document detailing the laws of bird-commerce, for reference:
"... laughs for scraps, bones for stones and a minute of your time for an eternity in the stars"