jodediah: guyth i’m thick and it hurtth to thwallow D: I am...

Sun, 05 May 2013 15:26:33 -0700

jodediah:

guyth i’m thick and it hurtth to thwallow D:

I am sick again. I would have redrawn this to better fit my particular sickness, but I’m feeling TERRIBLE.

Fun fact this is also 1 of the 2 posts of mine that has ever been featured in the #Artists on Tumblr tag!

I miss you, come back

Sat, 04 May 2013 21:11:32 -0700

I’m really sorry I will. I’m just an idiot ugh 4give meeeeeee

Modesty burdenTruth denied by the truthfulMirrors can’t show you

Thu, 02 May 2013 01:35:23 -0700

Modesty burden
Truth denied by the truthful
Mirrors can’t show you

I feel really apathetic and sad and I want to go to sleep and...

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 00:25:11 -0700

I feel really apathetic and sad and I want to go to sleep and not wake up for a long time

Kawaiiclops~

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 08:33:18 -0700

Kawaiiclops~

Return to Dreamland

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 07:00:08 -0700

Return to Dreamland

Sorry for not posting anything for a while. I am a magnet in a field of wheat.For those of you who...

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 04:45:13 -0700

Sorry for not posting anything for a while. I am a magnet in a field of wheat.
For those of you who enjoy my writing, here is a large jumble of unrelated chaos:

Video game idea: A kid that flashes through waking moments as if they are dreams, and travels through dreams as if they are the real world. Leads an abused miserable life and consequently comes back one night to discover his dream world is falling apart. He quests to save it- ultimately becoming an adult and losing his ability to dream, or staying in the dream and becoming detached from what is real. On the way he encounters his Imaginary Friend, several dream locations, and his Nightmare, whose identity may be revealed as someone from his waking life depending on what ending you achieve.
A raspy segmented inhalation opens onto sharp whiteness. Seven. Bars placed diagonally, within gray blue within gray white. Echoes. They grow louder and focus into yelling. The atmospherics scream crimson through purple lips and saliva. Outside the grass sways gently in the wind. On the other side of the planet someone is giving birth. Not here. Not here. Frightened peering upon confrontation. Steps upward. Choking. Tears. They grow weaker as distance unfolds, hands grasp to unfold further. Homely creaking of ivory and goldenrod: the apparatus is composed of rectangles and circles. Seven, but seven of darkness. Dull aching horror, and isolation. Time. Time. Time.
With a gasp, Kid found himself back at the station. The ground was made of pillows, as always, and he spent a moment appreciating the softness of the purple fabric. Standing up, Kid noticed that things had changed a bit around here. There seemed to be more clouds than last time, but the sky was as bright a cyan as ever. Something else was off, but he couldn’t quite place it.
He progressed to the room with the domed ceiling, and there as always was Friend. He smiled.
“Kid! It’s so wonderful to see you again! I haven’t seen you here for a few days,” the enthusiasm in Friend’s voice dropping off sharply. “Things have been changing around here. I can show you, but you’re going to have to help me up.”
Kid nodded, knowing the procedure. He hopped up the letter blocks to the top shelf, and took down two gears and a jack in the box. He leapt down onto the pillowy ground and walked over to friend, attaching the two gears to Friend’s cart and using the jack to push him on to the railing. Friend expressed his gratitude and turned the rails towards the North. Kid and he strolled off to the forest clearing.
“It’s been in a sad state, the poor thing,” Friend sighed as it motioned to the hot air balloon. “We can’t have any great adventures if it isn’t working!” It paused briefly. “Lucky for you, I know where the parts are. They’re all in different places for some reason,” it continued, clearly perturbed, “but you should be able to get them without too much trouble. When you’re ready head back inside and check the mailbox, I wrote everything down for you there. The instructions should be easy to follow.” Friend smiled.
Kid nodded and left.
Inside the domed room again, Kid felt himself beginning to feel light. His feet began to lift off of the ground, and with one last jump he grabbed on to the mailbox and held on with all his might. Reaching inside with his free hand, he pulled out two letters. Both were addressed to him, but only one was from Friend. He opened the other.

Dearest Child,
I would very much like to meet you face to faccce. I live by the gate, but I can travel further and further as time passesss. Hope that scar on your back doesn’t hurt too much, hmmm?
Sincerely,

Kid could feel his insides floating away. He continued to hold on to the mailbox, but after reading that letter his grip weakened. With one loud tick he froze up, and with great effort he brought his head around to see that the clock in his back had stopped. He needed to be wound back up again.
Choking, choking, choking, choking. Twisted teeth viewed this pleasurably and sunk back into the shadows as the mind warmed up. A thud from below. Breezes from the window pane. Standing, the groggy eyes slipped forward in time. They passed further than they had before. Blurry. Shoulder blade scar mirrored the unseen one, and memories spilled from the wound. A thud from below. The creaking of ivory and goldenrod came again, went again. Nothing. Persistence gave into panic as gates remained unopened. The usual routine unfolded. Hands again, this time not of his own, quavering. Quavering with the same crimson found in those purple lips. Quavering with rage. Bluuuuuurry. Witnessed from open eyelids among diagonal bars came again the familiar dance of predator and prey. Oxycontin. Open eyelids, again not of his own, and open only weakly. Spotted with purple. Time passes. Time passes. Those teeth again, lingering in the shadows unseen, stepping forward as the hours tick its boundary into previous sunlight. Are those teeth the predator? Hours. He decides to try again, this time hopeless. It is of routine alone. Ivory, goldenrod, circles and squares. They dance their moaning dance, their aching mechanical dance, much like the predator and prey below. Everything is connected. Sleep at last.
Kid exploded upright, screaming. He had a nightmare. It took several deep, desperate breaths before his heart rate began to calm. Here he was at the station again. In his back pocket he found the unopened letter from Friend.

Hey Kid! Friend here. The first part you’re going to need to fix the balloon is the repeater. It’s on the Derivative Contraption in the lower belt for some reason. If you head down there it should be a pretty easy grab and go sort of mission. Good luck, I’ll see you soon!
-Friend

Kid folded the letter neatly and returned it to his back pocket. He had never been to the lower belt area before. He figures there is a first time for everything and sets off.
The Derivative Contraption was a great whirring machine. There was a funnel at the top, some strange symbols, a color wheel, a conveyor belt, some pinchers, a bucket, and in the middle of it all Kid saw the repeater. There was no way he could just pull it out; he had to operate the machine. It took some time, but after quite a bit of trial and error he figured the danged thing out. The repeater popped out of its place in the machine, and the whole thing powered down and drooped. Kid picked up the repeater and turned to tell Friend of the news, but he stopped short. There was a thing in his path.
“Heeeello, Child.”
Kid froze.
“Oh now, don’t look so glum. You knew I was cominggg. Just look at the sky!” It reached a bony claw toward the clouds. The thing appeared to have two forms at once, and it would occasionally flash from what it is now to whatever that other thing was. “Hmm! You look like you have somewhere to go, Child. Why are you so hurried? Relax a little,” It asserted, motioning to the growing shadow that had passed Kid’s feet.
Kid gripped the repeater and clenched his jaw.
“Mmm, delightful trinket you have there, Child. Might I… see it?” The thing slithered its way behind Kid, its hands and body coming very close, but never actually touching him. When Kid shook his head in disagreement the thing stepped back, repulsed. “Very well, Child.”
There was a loud tick from Kid’s back as he locked up and began to fade away.
“Ooh not so fast, now,” the thing spat, grabbing Kid by the shirt and pulling him back to the ground. It lifted his shirt to reveal the clock embedded in his back, and it tapped its nails against the glass with a pleased hum. “Looks like you neeed more time, Child. How fortunate, for that is exactly what I have to offer.” It stuck its hand through the glass and machinery as if it were butter, and tugged at something within Kid. It pressed its ear against his back for a few seconds, listening intently, and then it smiled a toothy grin. “Alll better. Come back at— any time.”
Kid was alone, scared, and confused. The thing left, and he was all alone with the repeater in hand. With one unsure step after another he headed back to the room with the domed roof to find Friend and show him that he got the first missing piece of the hot air balloon.
=========================================
This is the story of some kid that had to fill ten pages. Not even that, it was ten pages double spaced. It wasn’t a challenge, and it wasn’t supposed to be one, but a challenge is what he made of it. You see this kid, or legal adult if you want to kid yourself, lives a life defined by distractions. He’s much too used to doing things his own way. He can’t be bothered to do assignments that he isn’t interested in. Even if he is interested, he’ll have his drugs at his side and at the ready just in case if his focus falters. Internet friends, chats with horny strangers, music, video games, a sketchbook and pen… all of these things are at the ready any time he needs them, and any time he doesn’t. He sometimes loses himself in these things, and also in his mattress in the morning. Just today, for instance, he stayed in his room until four in the afternoon. That’s pathetic. He probably would have stayed in there all day too, if it weren’t for his need for food and the date he planned later that night. Hours passed by, and all he had to show for that day were chat logs and web pages. Homework is weighing upon his consciousness like an alarm clock that whispers in your ear all day long, and his need to not let down the people he promised he’d meet this weekend stands before him like a brick wall. He tells himself that neither the homework or the dates are going to give, so the only logical release point for all this pressure is his sanity. He receives a text message.
“Hey there! How’s the homework coming along?”
He decides to come clean. “I’m so bad at being responsible, Chris. Gah.”
“How so?”
“I can be bothered to do homework. D: I’m totally out of the responsible groove” Of course he can’t be bothered to do homework. He’d much rather communicate with Sunday’s date.
“No beuno. What could be good motivation?”
“I dunno. Bluhhh.” Sometimes he feels he just does this for attention.
“Is it lack of interest?”
“I think it’s just me not wanting to leave my dark room and music.” This was before his 4:30 breakfast. He is listening to music that was given to him by one of the strangers that he chats with. They were trading songs back and forth to get a feel for the other’s musical tastes. A few more messages go back and forth. He has trouble paying attention to the lyrics.
“When’s it due?”
“Yesterday. I get half credit for turning it in late.”
“Oh. Hrm. Anything I can do to help?”
“Not from 30 miles away, nope :P” The conversation with Chris went on for a little while longer. Chris offered to be there to proofread the finished manuscript or to listen to ideas and give feedback or whatever. Our hero wasn’t about to get anything written.
As time passed he continued to flail about and wallow in the misery he was experiencing by not being productive whatsoever. He figured this was a valid tactic to get the work finished. After all, he had been functioning on a procrastinator’s strategy for all of his life. It seemed to get the job done. The other less recent works that he neglected to turn in floated around his head. He was a bad student, wasn’t he? Here, in this little motivational crisis, all of the compliments he had ever received were moot. Everything that he ever did wrong was in the front of the line of things to process. The world was ending.
As time continued to pass, he resorted to a tactic he found to be rather useful in the past. He began writing about his inability to write. He had used this last semester to write a paper in another class, or at least he thought that was what happened. He sure hoped he hadn’t done that this semester. That could be catastrophic.
As he typed and typed and typed, he began to lose himself in the rhythm of his keystrokes. Sure, he was interrupted once or twice by vibrations from his phone, but he entered a sort of trance in which words just flowed from him. This is what he was supposed to feel, right? This floating sort of delirium in which precious material just left him like a romanticized bird in a cage. That creative river which everyone at his university was gifted, save for him. He wondered how long it would take for people to realize that he was a fraud. The bird crossed his mind again. Real birds don’t leave their cages. Real birds want cages. They want to have a limited world, to be fed, to be cared for. To not have to worry about such things as homework and time and deadlines. The outside world is much too big for our little bird, it doesn’t matter how beautifully it can sing, the little animal. It will get eaten out there. It could starve to death. It could get lost. The most tragic bird is the one who is raised in a cage, just like the most tragic elephant is the one raised in chains. Despite the fact that it can break through the chains as an adult, it remains bound by them because the chains are all it knows. This bird has the power to break free and live a truthful life outside of these bars, but it seems as if every action it takes leads it to remain in their company. Ironically, it sings songs of the outside world, because that is what it sees. There are no songs that are born in cages, just as there are no original ideas.
It’s raining. Our hero awoke from his blabbering intellectual episode, and he is now walking the streets outside in a tee shirt and shorts. He is freezing. With divine suddenness he is struck by a ghost train, and he is consequently knocked out of his body. At this point he can no longer be referred to as a kid, adult, or human. He is an amorphous body of materially represented psyche. He contrasts with the ghost train’s spectral and pure whiteness, for he is now composed of scribbles of fire and ice clouded by a sparse exterior of baking flour and anxiety. He no longer has flesh or words to hide this.
====================
I am sitting in the San Francisco public library, siphoning electricity into my phone as a necessity for my very survival. I could talk for days about the architecture and wonder within this place, but instead I’m going to focus on the desk to which I am anchored. Directly across from me sits a Native American youth. He has long billowing black hair and a sweatshirt to match. He is reading through comic books in an entranced fashion and I don’t believe we have made eye contact once. To my left sits an old Asian man. He is the newest arrival to the table as not even ten minutes ago he hiked over with his towering blue backpack, umbrella and sleeping mat poking out from its interior. He cradled a small novel with a white cover, which if I remember correctly was about the wild west. Most interestingly, however, is the man sitting diagonally from me. His mind is a beehive. Before him lies a scraggled lined notebook whose pages are curled like foot long fingernails and whose edges are weathered like sedimentary rock. His eyes dart about the room, and twice he has made eye contact with me and furrowed his brow. I am intruding upon his hysteria. Pages upon pages are filled with twisted little columns of red ballpoint ink, they careen this way and that like a weather vane on a gusty October midmorning. He laughs sometimes, rolls his eyes others, engaged in an animated conversation with his notebook that nobody can overhear. He and his pen move in a broken rhythm, frozen for several moments and then frantic the next. He’ll flip the page now and again and laugh silently at his disorganized genius. More than anything I want to know what he is writing about, to get inside his head and witness that dystopic ensemble of gears perform their chaotic dance. As he gets up to leave I realize I’ll never get my chance, but within these words here I feel as if I got my wish. As I typed, possessed by his insanity, perhaps I too became insane. Perhaps we are not so different.

???!?!??

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 08:54:18 -0700

???!?!??

Lovely news!

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 17:24:44 -0700

I did a bunch of artwork over the weekend, and I can’t wait to upload it all! :D

Problem is though that I need to go work on more art for homework, so I don’t have time to upload them now.

Titles are:

Patchwork Streets,
Squidjuice Observes a Distant Yellow,
View out the Coffeeshoppe, and
Euth

Which one do you guys want to see first?

A rough draft of a song I wanna make.

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 18:32:23 -0700

A rough draft of a song I wanna make.

maybe I should stop spamming you guys with this crapwork

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 18:10:07 -0700

maybe I should stop spamming you guys with this crapwork

“a splash of color”

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 15:41:30 -0700

“a splash of color”

~owl~

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 15:39:37 -0700

~owl~

I’m addicted to this website.

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 23:36:52 -0700

I’m addicted to this website.

less crap than my last post

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 09:07:50 -0700

less crap than my last post

Warm up tiiimmmeeeeee

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 08:39:42 -0700

Warm up tiiimmmeeeeee

VOLTORB

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 23:45:36 -0700

VOLTORB

Doodle Party 5 All colors by me, all lines done by internet...

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 19:01:04 -0700

Doodle Party 5

All colors by me, all lines done by internet randoms <3

Doodle Party 4 All colors by me, all lines done by internet...

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 17:01:19 -0700

Doodle Party 4

All colors by me, all lines done by internet randoms <3

Jodaeic Creationisms

jodediah: guyth i’m thick and it hurtth to thwallow D: I am...

I miss you, come back

Modesty burdenTruth denied by the truthfulMirrors can’t show you

I feel really apathetic and sad and I want to go to sleep and...

Kawaiiclops~

Return to Dreamland

Sorry for not posting anything for a while. I am a magnet in a field of wheat.For those of you who...

???!?!??

Lovely news!

.

A rough draft of a song I wanna make.

maybe I should stop spamming you guys with this crapwork

“a splash of color”

~owl~

I’m addicted to this website.

less crap than my last post

Warm up tiiimmmeeeeee

VOLTORB

Doodle Party 5 All colors by me, all lines done by internet...

Doodle Party 4 All colors by me, all lines done by internet...