It's been a year, but my grandma says I'm in a wonderful area to be creative.

There was the smell of him first – & then the smell of cigarettes, distantly – cold, sucking wind. Liminal, hypnogogic – the bloom of him in her mind, his body a thin sheet draped over her cortex so that he becomes something of a phantom limb – or there are phantoms of his limbs on her body, & she wakes up with the dull-edged sense of his back against her belly (his vertebrae still sticking like seed to fur). She is in the backseat of a car, the window open to the blizzard outside, someone smoking, careening down a highway. She thinks she is asleep until she realizes that she does not blink in dreams – but the smell of him still deep in her nostrils, her body still percolating as if against his skin.

New art

These are the better pages of a sketchbook that I started for a sketchbook swap. Pretty much all that I've produced in a while outside of a class. Most of these were done in the same day because I am a master procrastinator.

Old art

Circa 2007/2008

feet

Thought I might start this blog with my foot fetish. This post, and every single one with pictures in it that occur hereafter, is dedicated to Jamie Bourgeois.

Get it? I guess you will.