Archive for Personal Work

Exposition Upon Death

Posted in GFYS, Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Note to Self, Rants with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 10, 2012 by ccartlidge

It has only been a few days since I moved back from Ghana. In retrospect, time seems to have passed disturbingly quickly (which isn’t surprising, as they say that about practically everything).

It seems like a dream that manifests in the midst of the rising action, leaving me to fabricate the introduction, scramble to prepare for the climatic action, and then it ends so quickly that the conclusion seems not to exist at all and I still have no idea whether this dream was a comedy or a tragedy. Or nightmare, as it were. I suppose the truth is that it is both, because everything is, and it would seem so obvious as to be stupid, if it wasn’t also so complicated.

I may have learned more about human nature in the past year than I’ve learned in the previous 28 and I’ve certainly learned that the dramatic arc only exists, unadulterated, in a fabricated drama.

Endings are for the dead.

Ghana and the sauce

Posted in Aesthetic Day, Literary Masterpieces with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 4, 2012 by ccartlidge

The sauce being the keyword there. Because I imagine a severe dearth of it. (Side note: whiskey is delicious and I’m very sorry I didn’t open up to it earlier. Either that or eternally grateful. You know, given how poorly I respond to tequila. Sorry, Geoff). Also: a severe dearth of the innerwebs. Upon my return in November or December or sometime decidedly earlier than next May (Sorry, Danielle), I might have 20 posts at once.  Until then…

There is a human, who I’ll call “Parenthesis Brit”. I didn’t realize until a few days ago that he might be the king of backhanded compliments. Desperately, I hope I’m overreacting. (I’m known to do this). BUT. If I’m not overreacting than either A) I was wrong, B) We were both wrong, C) He’s wrong, or D) One of the above combined with my severe self-doubt regardless of who is actually wrong, if anyone at all. At least part of D) is true.

(Also, I was being serious about Ghana).

(On a super side note, Adam Yauch will be missed. Rest in peace, MCA)

I’m Glad I’m a Lady, Because I Might Not Otherwise Have Learned To Braid / Maybe I’ll Look Back On This One Day and Smile, Slightly.

Posted in Literary Masterpieces with tags , , , , , on April 19, 2012 by ccartlidge

I always thought it was something. Here at the end I can only wish for something more tangible, as our timeline has split into yet another thin tangent: the prince, the pauper, the second after a forgotten dream, and so on. The space directly behind my forehead fills with a sort-of meta sorrow, forcing out existential expletives.

Extracting lessons from hardship mutates sorrow into sick joy, which settles into the space directly behind the space directly behind my forehead. Still shapeless, this lesson laces itself wherever it can and cannibalizes itself when necessary. It might also dissipate, shamefully, as happier times trot in. Which makes it meaningless.

For better or worse, I no longer have you living permanently among my influences. This is the good mourning.

A Triptych of Dead Writers with a Triptych of Epic Love Letters

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 14, 2012 by ccartlidge

I said I was going to draw a portrait of Kafka and pair it with a love letter, but decided that it would be so much better / creepier if I just went ahead and drew three. It’s an adorable matching set of great, dead writers! Huxley is creepy, Hemingway is stoic, and Kafka is mad sexy. (I took some liberties.) And, yes, I spilled coffee on Hemingway. Lets us just pretend that it’s rum. It’s fitting that way and it seems like something Hemingway would do, so it stays.

A love letter to Aldous Huxley:

I am continually fascinated by the manner in which you respond to the word ‘pneumatic’. I’m pretty sure I just called you a commodity, but since you don’t seem to mind, Imma keep on keepin’ on. Bring on the kink and don’t be stingy with the hallucinogens.


A love letter to Ernest Hemingway:

Great sex.


A love letter to Franz Kafka:

Eat something. Still nervosa vibrates from your fragile eyes and your words give away effortless pain. It would be a fittingly tragic conundrum to choose between your gift and your sanity. If I could choose for you, I wouldn’t. Either that or I would choose your gift, playfully flick the winged beasts that live on the sides of your head and say, “I know you’re sick, but seriously don’t burn anything.”

The Mountain Impass and Buckaroo Banzai

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2012 by ccartlidge

Clarity and the bright places come for me in waves now, which is a notable improvement to the murky, dark shit I was wading through before. Hence: curiously colored boulders and an unreachable shore! Oooh, it looks so nice and surreal! I’d visit this place wearing a bikini and a parka. (I’d need both.) I’d heroically fashion myself a slingshot and try desperately to propel pebbles far enough to rustle leaves on the other shore. This would be impossible. I’d move on to ascend the mountain of rainbows and possibly lick it on the way up to make sure the mountain isn’t made of Peeps. Upon discovery of Peep Mountain, I’d scramble to the top so I could eat my way to the bottom. Regret would overcome me. A nap would then follow. Eventually, I’d swim across and either A) admire The Mountain of Rainbow Peeps from afar, make camp, a fire, and wish I’d taken some Peeps with me to roast or B) drown.

So, the next Portrait is still to come but I have this as a temporary replacement. I actually did complete a portrait, but it ended up looking just enough like Jeff Goldblum that I couldn’t post it for fear that it would seem like bad fan art. I do love me some Goldblum. Which reminds me of the insane magnificence of The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension! Facetiously hip things make me enjoy life a bit more.

Portrait of an Intangibility, No. 1: Soren

Posted in Aesthetic Day, Loves, Personal work with tags , , , , , , , on January 20, 2012 by ccartlidge

I had a bit of trouble naming this one. His name is Soren, but trying to describe his mood without using too many words was the issue. (And I’m warning you now: I totes failed). He’s just arrived at the acceptance stage after going through a complicated and esoterically abusive emotional tragedy. You know that feeling when you’re physically and emotionally exhausted and all you want to do is go *insert personally appropriate comforting action here* but you can’t because you are in the middle of something, so you stay and finish it, but when you look at people you can’t seem to focus on their eyes? Yup, that. For now, the subtitle is “the Multifarious Sepulchre” and hopefully this will be the first in a series I’m calling “Portrait of an Intangibility”.

On a side note: this is a bit unintentionally appropriate today, as Etta James has died. The world is a less beautiful place without you.

2012 is going to be an adorable year.

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work, Rants with tags , , , on January 1, 2012 by ccartlidge