Miamor: http://mor.lux-lucis.net
by Mia on 7:04 pm, 5/1/2007 in ink-spattered || none spoke
When you write you must have something meaningful to say. Something larger than your characters. Something that doesn’t belong just to them, but to truth.
There must be purpose. There must be meaning. And it must be comprehensible outside that world.
by Mia on 11:12 pm, 2/4/2007 in ink-spattered || (4) spoke
That I could speak and you could hear
the whispers of my bloodied tongue. That
it was day and you looked full
into my thirsty eyes. That love was true
and trust was strong, and roses were unthorned–
The night’s blind terrors pierce the heart,
but even so I dreamed.
–
Five-minute poem before going to bed. Accent on every other beat, I think… or something. Experimenting with rhythm and mushiness. I kind of miss being mushy. Or, you know, knowing that someone was pining over me? Or actually pining over someone. I can be cruel, or at least my inner idiot poet can. Might fix the ending when I wake up; it’s weaker than I want it to be. (Dreamed is right, but I’m not sure if it’s clear… dammit.)
by Mia on 12:41 am, 1/26/2007 in lost lines || (2) spoke
From the postcard project that somehow turned into postcards-within-envelopes because the mail system cannot be trusted and the postcards I have put together are fragile things.
A note: I delayed in posting pictures because I didn’t want people to feel bad about liking a card best and then getting someone else. But but but ephy is an art/writing journal, so I will just… hope that the recipient likes what s/he gets. Yes.
Made with colored and printed paper using a brush-pen, silver marker, and an inking pen. The back reads: “Be like the bird, who halting in his flight on limb too slight feels it give way beneath him — yet sings, knowing he hath wings. (Victor Hugo)” in black ink on a drawing of a feather in silver.
Made with colored paper, black board, and gold wrapping paper using silver and black markers. The kanji is kage (shadow).
Made with colored and printed paper, green stationery paper, and gold wrapping paper using an inking pen and a silver pen for the back.
The back for the postcard above; by this time I had given up on sending them the regular way and decided to put the postcards inside envelopes instead (which defeats the purpose of sending a postcard instead of a card, but oh well). It reads, “Why does spring once again/ offer its green clothes? (Pablo Neruda)” in silver ink.
Made with colored and printed paper, peach stationery board, and tracing paper using inking pen, pencil, and pastels. I still have to flatten it somewhere — a lot of my paper was in rolls for a long time so it curls and warps if all its edges aren’t glued down. I didn’t want to glue everything down here; this is a nice thing to take apart because there are so many layers (and I like pretending the paper layers are screens or windows, to be drawn back).
by Mia on 3:54 pm, 1/21/2007 in visuals || (3) spoke
The over-arching branches of great trees: a filigree of rough bark and dark green. The sky, gray as mourning, leaching buildings and streets of color. Sidewalks of crumbling stone; between them, silent gray streets, empty benches, hollow eyes. Clouds of dark and light brood overhead, unmoving.
A great red star caught in one tree’s embrace. Color pulses out of it, vivid and unexpected, like the beating of a heart. It beats in frantic rhythm of scarlet and darker crimson, the only living thing in a place of silence. A heart of points and sharp edges, bleeding and alive, forever trapped in limbo and immobile gray.
by Mia on 10:42 am, 1/4/2007 in elementals || (2) spoke
For a Christmas project: a sketch I did in my Moleskine. Very rough and I need to fix a lot of things (the… shoulder/pose? also the flying things outside the window), but I like the concept.
Again, taken with a digital camera instead of properly scanned because I can’t scan my stuff right now.
Yeah, it’s art therapy. People should make me suffer if they want me to write or draw. Pretty strange.
by Mia on 12:10 am, 12/8/2006 in visuals || none spoke
It has taken me twenty years to learn to be content with the limits of my mind. Twenty years before I could look out onto the endless ocean of the unknown without being overwhelmed by the ache to know all of it or the longing to map boundaries that do not exist. Twenty years before I could master my pride and say to it, enough!, though it may rage at and chafe against the restraints of human intellect.
Today I am content with this little inlet that is my own: this rocky shore, this storm-tossed bay, these chalky cliffs overlooking waves lit by the last few embers of the sun. I do not know as much as I would wish, and at times the extent of my ignorance frightens me. But what knowledge I have is mine; was given to me, indeed, by God, but is still truly my own and not merely the parrotings of those who pretend that they possess truth they have stolen, by mimicry, from others.
And today I have learned enough to set sail for other shores, other seas, to ask for enlightenment on things my sea cannot encompass. I have begun, painfully, to accept that I will never be able to fulfill my cartographer’s dream of charting all the waves and currents of the vast unknown, but instead must first come to know each drop and pebble and grain of sand contained in this sea I call my own.
Then — oh, then — I will begin to chart the nameless seas. I can never reach all of them, but one day I will perhaps find the strength to test other waters and reveal depths hitherto unexplored. This is my world, and I do not yet know its limits. I think I will spend my life trying to find them, sailing outward, further and further, past tempest and wave, toward the light that burns undimmed over the water.
by Mia on 12:27 am, 11/25/2006 in depths and heights || none spoke
