Tag Archives: moleskine

Dear Friend II

So la-da-dee-da-deee, we like to pardeeee…
Dancin’ with Molly, doin’ whatever we wa-a-aaaaaant….
This is our house, these are our rules…
And we can’t stop… and we won’t stop!!
(-Bastille cover of ‘Can’t Stop’)

death and all

Moleskine sketch – Death and all his friends. [I started out drawing a bunch of fucked up heads and then realized they correspond to the things I am scared of, including depression, suicide, self-harm, vomiting, negative body image and weird pieces of meat. Make it big to appreciate all the detail >___>)

Dear Friend,

I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?

A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]

the cutters red st seb new color detailconnie red smallrough night moleskinsafewordjon crophyenatumblr_mtwm896nri1rn4weno1_500

People talk about their exes, the lovers and bfs and efs and gfs and people who have screwed them up–rarely do people mention breaking up with friends. You don’t break up with a friend; you move, or grow apart, or stop having time for each other. It is not an eruption, rather an imperceptible but gradual tectonic shift in life situations that usually erodes friendships. Destroy being too strong of a word. However, you and I broke up. There was shouting, tears, angry words. Cold, long, unbreakable silence. And when I made new friends who seemed like they could be who you had been to me, I annoyed them by mentioning you too much, exactly as someone annoys a current partner by talking too favorably or too often of an old one.

The kicker about losing a friend you’ve had from childhood is that the vernacular of your friendship is so entrenched, it seemed at times I couldn’t go a single day without seeing SOMETHING that reminded me of you. A cup of coffee, a certain star we’d crushed on, a person with curly black hair… You were and continue to be reactivated in my memory through sight, sound, touch, taste and smell–the places we walked, jokes we made, foods we ate, songs we heard, words we used. Like Proust and his fucking madeleine dipped in tea. A tiny trigger could put me in a mood… and now here you were after what… two years? Three now?

On the phone.

“Hello?’ you said and I said ‘hello?’ about two times more than necessary, as if I didn’t recognize your voice, but yeah right. Right? You had me at ‘hel’ ~_~ I knew it had to be you.

It’s funny, I’ve fantasized about this conversation for literally years. I wondered  what it would be like, if you would ever want to talk to me again, if I would be happy the day you finally came around; if I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, or if we truly wouldn’t talk and at some point in the far future one of us would hear from a friend of a friend of a friend, ‘oh yeah, xxx? They died last month…’

That sounds melodramatic, but humans DO actually die.
Right? We are mortal??
Not just like in dem books.

I’ve spent this last month under a lot of anxiety. I’m going through a strange period of my life right now. I can’t say it is necessary bad. Just difficult. Like Akagi said, the sand at the bottom of Hell is magical sand.

A lot of the pics I’ve drawn lately have been violent, disturbing or sad. A lot of them have to do with self-harm and a feeling of doubt, exactly what you have expressed to me on the phone. I wondered while I was drawing if these pics had any value, if they were too emotional or personal to mean anything to someone other than myself. In other words, if I was wasting my time.

It’s extremely serendipitous that just as I was thinking these thoughts you called. And I heard in your voice not the desire even to be loved, though of course, everyone wants to be loved. I heard the desire to have something that demanded that you throw yourself into it, that you live, not just exist.

I won’t talk about the stuff you said, of course, all of that is confidential and no person’s business, but I will say thank you for calling me again and making me feel like I am doing something right.  You managed to remind me of the important thing–that when you create anything, you are living. As you said, tasting life. And so long as you are doing that, it is impossible to be wasting your time.

“I’m sick of this John Greene generation–sadness is not romantic, nobody is going to come kiss your scars or discover you reading Bukowski in a bookshop. You’ve got to be your own hero.” -rough paraphrase of some internet quote

I actually find it pretty easy to find people who will kiss the scars, it’s just that the kisses don’t make them go away. The antidote to sadness is not always love. Often, sadness is the overwhelming ache to be useful, to be productive, or to find satisfying expression, and no, you cannot be your own hero, because you don’t live in a vacuum. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a prince or a princess or a princez on a white horse who drags you out of your rut, but you need a relationship and productive dialogue with something.

Art will not kiss your scars, but on the other hand, you can come to it again and again and never impose upon it, never fear that maybe this time your complaining and pus and tears will drive it away.  You made me realize I am very lucky and I hope I can help you too at some point in the near future, dear friend.

It was really good to hear from you. <3

Rolling Stone

I’m talking to the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to make a change. This random sketch brought to you by W, coffee graphite, and Michael Jackson.

What’s good, moofs? How are you? Me well… everything’s been so busy lately. I was in Hungary last week and New York this last weekend… Every time I travel to the states I make a vow never to travel to the States again. The hassle! The questions. I’m sick of all these fucking questions that have nothing to do with anything. Or they have to do with something, but they are so transparent and asinine, I could fall on my knees. Please! Can we stop this retarded mating dance and can you just come out and ask me, man to man?

ARE YOU A TERRORIST? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING WANTING TO HARM OUR CREW OR PLANE ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR BAG THAT WE HAVE MISSED AFTER WE HAVE INAPPROPRIATELY TOUCHED YOUR BODY ALL OVER AND HAVE RIFFLED THOUGH ALL YOUR SHIT??

Why can’t they just ask that? Do they think burying the question under ten other ones will catch anyone off their guard?

-Did you pack your own bags?
-Was anyone standing near you while you packed your bags?
-Did anyone ask you to pack anything for you?
-Were you by any chance high or drunk when you were packing your own bags, thus introducing the possibility that you do not remember if you have packed your own bags yourself?
-Do you like the color blue?
-Are you following ‘Game of Thrones’?
-Have you ever eaten fried chicken at midnight?
-How long have you been in this country?
-How did you get to the airport this morning?
-What do you do in this country?
-What do you do for a living?
-Point to the person who asked you to pack something illegal for them in your bag.
-What do you, what do you, what do you….

Guh, seriously, I could puke.

But then I go to the states and it’s so nice to see everyone again and we have our silly times and old friends that I forget all my vows and next time I’m gnashing my teeth again. Anyway. I have a billion things to do before we leave tomorrow, bright and early to trudge off to the puma den, so all y’all wish me luck please, though you know it wouldn’t be Italy if some shit didn’t go down… Thankfully we’re taking some buffer friends, including trusty Uncle Fail and my Hungarian buddy. I will not hesitate to use either of them as a meat shield, should the need arise.

We’re Off…

A parting picture before we hit the American mainland….

Random tentaconan sketch from the Moleskine which has been ignored lately : /

All right… wish us luck, as we settle down on the plane for a trans-Atlantic flight with the Lord of Poop…. ^-^ Heh, I am soooo looking forward to seeing the face of the poor bastard who has to sit next to us…. decades of suffering….. paid back, at last! Oh, I’ll make sure to warn him….

“Yes… I hope you don’t mind sitting next to this tiny baby… he screams like the Nazgul at 30,000 ft….”
(-Five Very Good Reasons to Punch a Dolphin in the Mouth)

Happy August!

An Unholy Ache...!

Hey moofs.

Wanted to wish you all a HAPPY AUGUST, ringing in the month when it will finally be beautiful here in Munich (ahem ahem) with two pictures celebrating two things I love….

Tentacles…
And gang showers!!!! <3

Gang shower...

So happy August and remember… ‘it’s not gay, if you’re in a three way…
If there’s a honey in the middle, you’ve got lee-way…’ (Probably there’s no honey available if you’re in an all male shower… and that’s fine too >:P)

Niko Niko

Watcha talkin' 'bout, Willis?

Free Nazgul sweet little baby boy to good home.
Please feed him plenty of fresh souls warm milk.
His name is (–).

Yeah, we almost wrote that note last week…but then it was raining… and once we found the appropriate spot for abandonment, we realized we didn’t have a pen… and it was early, so the people passing us in the park were joggers and you know how joggers never carry a pen…::sigh::

So we ended up bringing the little Nazgul back with us. He glared balefully from his carriage; gave a few lusty screams before we tucked him into his bed…

It was his 3 month birthday last Saturday. And yes, sometimes I have evil fantasies about abandoning him in a park to return to my life of loose men and crack cocaine, but I suppose you could say he’s wormed his way into my heart… I’m getting soft in my old age.

This pic is commemorating three months with Thomas Mann. It’s called Niko Niko or Smile and it’s incidentally also the first page of my new Moleskine. Yup, the last few weeks without that creamy paper were sad weeks for me… I’d gotten other paper, but there is something about working in a sketchbook that is a lot of fun. You get to flip through the old pictures and be like OMG, who’s the idiot who designed this web-page?!

God, I’m going wonky. Have to hit the sack.
By the way Hazel–there’s an identical Moleskine waiting to meet you the next time we get together! :D It’s got a firetruck red cover… wheee!

Let the Right One In

You guys see this vampire movie, Let the Right One In? Probably not, but if you get the chance, check it out. I’m not really into the whole vampire craze, but this movie had an impressive, northern lights creepiness about it… Anyway, this drawing somehow reminded me of the movie, probably because it had a young, pale, Nordic protagonist boy rocking a prince Valiant shag….

Let the Right One In or Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

I stayed up way too late last night, practicing drawing hair and shadows, but I think I needed it. A break of sorts. Yesterday was a day of guilt >:P Yes, (–) and I were butting heads all day, but I’m sorry to say, two and half months old or not, he was being a little dickhead.

We’d been having problems on and off this afternoon, but he closed my gate, as we say in Hungarian, on the way to getting lost to Anti-Slam (who the hell gets lost to a place they’ve been at like four times??)–I was pissed at myself–the air was Munich-muggy; I had to pee, I was thirstier than an Albanian donkey and Uncle Fail’s directions to the cafe were being drowned out by baby wailings. A baby who had been eating non-stop all day, mind you. Who’d been being held all day and wheeled about in his pram in the beautiful sunshine. Not a hungry baby. Not a neglected baby.

At a certain corner, I could not take it longer–

(–), shut the fuck up so I can hear him!, I growled into the carriage menacingly; a woman next to me on the corner gave me a look like… God. You Animal.

Look lady, I thought defensively, you haven’t been terrorized by this little meatloaf since six this morning! But I did feel guilty. (–) looked up at me with his big moist aluminum colored eyes, but don’t think he was scared of me or anything. He let out another hearty scream, pushing my irritation level to shit yeah and just as I was about to bust a headline and a few important veins, Uncle Fail showed up and saved Christmas. I think he saw that I was about to do some Very Bad Things, so he held (–) all through the anti-slam…

It wasn’t good, but I’m comforted by knowing I’m not the only bad parent out there >:P Thanks Hazel for sending this gem! It really cracked me up.

In other news, I’m finishing up my book’s cover today. =) Yup, I’m gonna have  an ‘advanced reader copy’ soon…. EEE! I have to make a few changes to the cover–including use a different image than I had originally picked, because that image had (completely gratuitously, I’ll admit) a bared breast on it and my publisher was like… some librarians will be reluctant to accept such a book….
(Does this mean my book will be in libraries???!!!???)

J: Oh, I don’t remember a boob on your cover. …there’s a boob? Is the girl’s shirt off, or something?
Me: No… I just… for some reason, drew it with her boob hanging out. For no reason.

Ahaha. So yeah, I’ll be getting a rated-PG cover, but that’s totally cool.

My mom: I’m glad SOMEBODY’S stopping you from getting pornography into libraries…. just kidding!

I couldn’t help but laugh. Yup, it’s a never-ending crusade, this one of mine against all decency and good taste, but what did Truman Capote say? ‘Good taste is the death of art.’ Here, here!

Anyway, I’m trying to pick my battles. Have a great Friday and weekend, moofs! ^-^b

Schopenfags

It’s summer, moofies! Time to grab your favorite boy for a fine round of dresseling golf.

Yep, we’re in the Urban dictionary. All four of us:

Merey
NAME:
muh-rayA Merey can have the first impression of a bitch, but once you get to know her, she’ll be an amazing friend.
This is probably because she tends to move around a lot so tries not to get too close to people too quickly.
Because of moving around she has probably seen many of the sights of the world and because she probably has old money, she has high expectations of life and probably aims to be in the performing arts (dancing, singing, acting) and is probably very good at it.
what a bitch!” “Oh no, she’s a Merey!!
(–)
handsome pretty man
boy
jun
A very sexy male who is asian. He wears glasses and probably is going to grow up to be a pharmacist.College student who likes tall white girls.Very short but is a cutie.

Jackie: “OMG Jun’s coming.”
David: “I know you want him. Get ‘eemmm”
Jackie: “I think I will ;] I can’t resist a Jun.”

And the best definition goes to Dr. Fail:

dressel
to dressel someone means you have sex with him/her and he/she is just a fuck. you don’t give a shit whats the persons name or what he/she ist doing. The sex is rough so he/she can not take action the next days, this person needs to recover. mostly you make sex with this person and you show her/him something new. You brake their mental walls down. Mostly just using the partner as a thing.
i dresseled her last night, now she knows how to deepthroat, she did not show up in office today. so i did realy dressel her.

Jar of Hearts

Do you identify with the hero of the books you read? Do you feel a tug in your breast when the parallels slide into your own life, like a greased sack of strawberry ice cream sliding into your bedroom?  I know i do!

I am a hopeless identifier. You know, this ego of mine, it’s gotta find me everywhere. I read books and I think: You’re my long-lost friend/brother/lover/sister/dinner. You’re me. I was reading “The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” this last month. Great book. Great book?? Fucking sick book. Prose so sick it makes you sick. That man can WRITE. Junot Diaz may not be able to fry an egg to save his life, he probably is not the guy you want to have around when you get attacked by a rabid ibex, but he can write some motherfucking good prose, so good you see, I have to cinch it with an image of maternal fornication to make sense of it all.

Not only is the writing delicious, the main character I could really identify with. Okay sure, he is a fat Dominican over-nerd and I am a skinny Hungarian technophobe–he wants to become the Dominican Tolkien, and I want to become the Hungarian Bruce Benderson. We’re not the same person–but fat, nerdy-ass Oscar has inspired me to try to sell my writing again. Or at least to get published.

He never got published. He never gave up though. Not until the (spoiler!) day they beat him to death in a Dominican cane field for macking on a police honcho’s bird.

…you know how many things in my life I’ve done because I’ve read it in a book and it seemed like a shit-yeah idea? A LOT. So now I think: Oscar didn’t give up. I’m not going to give up.

Even though trying to publish your writing is super masochistic.
I’m remembering the time i hooked a car-battery up to my nipples. Why do I remember that? Because the pain is equatable?  But writing a query letter is worse than that. Car batteries bruise your nipples, but query letters tear a hole right in your shivering, pussy-ass little writer’s HEART. It feels like this:

What Writing a Query Letter to an Agent Feels Like

You are the whore of whores. The attention whore of attention whores. Look at me, look at me, look at me! Your letter has to beg. Buy me, buy me, buy me! ‘Begging for that dirty, fat-ass dollar.’ To quote Tool. Gaaahghghgh. It’s awful.

No more whining though. Be strong, dammit!
And go to bed, it’s so late!

(But ‘Oscar Wao’ really was an exquisite book. The hype was real. You think you know where it’s going too, and then Diaz is like, fuck you dead, you’ve got no CLUE where this is going. And he’s right. BTW, if you don’t know Bruce Benderson yet… he is so good. The man is a god. I want to be a beautiful, intelligent little gay-boy just so I can lurk outside his apartment in New York while he comes down to get his daily…whatever it is that he eats, and bat eyes at him until he notices me… invites me upstairs and I make him coffee and… sigh.
I’ll have to write a post dedicated solely to him.)

Anyway, goodnight, moofies!! ^-^b zzzzz time

Starry, Starry Night

or Just Van Gogh for It

Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
-from don mcLean’s starry starry night…

Happy May, people =)  One month gone.

Where did it go? Where did your month go?

A whorl on the side of (--)'s head reminded me of my art hero's iconic painting.

Mine went to figuring out the subtle tricks to keep (–) alive. I think me and J are getting pretty good…. =) (My nipples disagree, but we’ll ignore their bloody cries for now.) All I can say is: I used to mock the idea of a lactation consultant. I mean, a breast-feeding consultant? Are you f-ing kidding me? What’s easier than putting your kid to your boob and having it eat?

….

I guess a lot of things, to be honest.

Lactation consultants and people who have seeked them out: My apologies, because it is NOT easy! (Or my kid’s dysfunctional >:P Or my nipples are dysfunctional >:P) Either way… breastfeeding… es ist keine Ponyhof. (German for: Shit hurts like a mofo!)

Counter-bonus: I think I’m secretly a baby-factory… I had a breezy pregnancy and now wake up in a puddle of my own breast milk regularly. I’m starting to consider selling this stuff. Online, some women call it the ‘white gold’… Complicated dances and intricate deals must be made with the devil for their milk to emerge. It’s got little to do with breast size, but the position of the stars in the sky.  And luck. ‘Oh yes,’ my mom’s best friend in Hungary says. ‘Look at these huge leather sacks! -here she tugs at her breasts dismissively- ‘You think any decent amount of milk ever came out of them? Bah! And then you see these skinny little bitches and milk’s running down all the way to their ____s!’

I’ve been one of those lucky bitches. No lambs sacrificed to the princess of Darkness, yet my tatas are twin ICBMs poised to feed a Vietnamese child army. Should I try to sell this? Should I do my good deed for the year and donate?

I’ll have to look into this…

The Dream

The Dream

When I was a kid in Hungary, we had this huge oil painting hanging in our bedroom called The Dream. It really was huge– over two meters long, probably a meter and a half wide, a painting by a Hungarian painter called Eisenhut. I don’t remember exactly what was on it–it was dark as hell, those oils get dark as the years pass, but there was a reclining woman–a hookah, maybe? (Or a samovar? Some exotic, steaming contraption.) And a monkey–the monkey was offering the woman a fruit, or a basket of fruit…

The picture is long gone–sold to someone–it’s hanging in some other bedroom now and even if we ever got it back, it’s too BIG to ever fit in our apartment, but–

One day, I’m going to get two meters of canvas, a bunch of oils and paint that picture–get it back! My own dream. (The boys posed for this sketch ^-^)

Hope you moofs had a nice Easter!!