While cleaning, I got distracted. My laptop remain disorderly as I use time to write some ttthing things. I've been occupied with words lately. Pertaining to my draft, I wonder if it might be assembled pure image, then script. It may make more sense to me. Is it suspicious that my characters don't make sense to me, or is that the point of the draft. To communicate differently... or at least bare the flaws of my attempts. I hope for many things and articulate none. A legibility that blossoms from a reflection upon my actions will be good for me, I think. I'll post the end of a recent letter sometime soon. It has to do with washing and drying machines, I think.
Anyway, here's Wonderwall:
Michaela still hasn't done her homework
Trying to write a response to
my professor’s question, What is a poison?
Disclaimer, I have not yet read
the definitions she handed out in class,
but here's my stab anyhow:
IT enters into your patterns of harm.
Some poisons are strictly chemicals,
Some are not.
Some interact mindless of the state of their victim,
Some stay halt.
What do all poisons have in common?
fate in definition:
* Freestyling as one of my characters, Toc. He's kinda fucked in the head, na? Anyway, enjoy the wordies.
You were unwilling to heart catch catch heart
Do your part not letting me fall down,
fart, dim-out. Wish the world could do
me art. Living now was assort
Of being free from next, before.
Why is it I can only think
of how I blankeyed my sister
When we were wee?
It warn’t my fault,
I was toolil to-be.
Bothered that I imagine myself easy
as the white boy from university
Than my neighbor who's black,
shee live crost the street.
Am I so unwilling to embody these notes to you
Because I afraid afraid of running away
From you and me and hope and dreams
This just another confession from Toc
But it’s probably me, just TOCing, tocking.
When I’m with you I want to change you and I think
Why should I want to change any-body?
Our living room has six or eight pieces of furniture. Critical object-spaces include the whiteboard, the cold air return, the windows. Measuring in at 5'x4', that whiteboard fits on only one wall. Currently, there's a half-erased venn diagram with the intersected bulleted point: 'don't kill humans on way to good.' The cold air return has a busted cover, a liability demonstrated when Pat's brother almost fell through. And windows equal light, breath.
When I lived elsewhere this summer, the next door neighbors had a yard sale with this glorious standing table. My elbows bend at 90 degrees typing on it. Patrick needs only 1 desk booster to bring his computer up to a human level. (he tall)
This blog post seeps silliness.
My greatest passion in life is rearranging furniture. I've rearranged the living room half a dozen times since August. The trickiest part is the bookshelf, once neatly order according to size and type. The half size Vonneguts together, the non-fiction on contemporary China together. The graphic novels clumped. Laura's French texts somewhere to the left. Books from the library tracked into the corner. Pat's contributions -- Artificial Intelligence and Pattern Recognition -- the token heavy, x-edition textbooks rest on the bottom end. These rearrangements have seen me throwing the books willy nilly this way and that. Now Murakami snuggles up to On Understanding Poverty. Maybe the lack of boxes is better. Pin the tail on the Boris the Skinner's inside-out donkey.
I think I've reached optimal configuration. Patrick stands on the long end of the desk. Orthogonal to me. The whiteboard is within reach. The windows are clear, the couches are cozy. The couches. I see why love seats exist, where two cushions constitute good nuff. Couches are big-type things. Difficult like redirecting a river to make these fit.
Importantly, Pai Guat has two out of the way pillow places. One at our feet under this desk, and one behind the couch, in the nook that seems to exist for him. Not to be stepped on.
Nah I'm fooling. I've been making digital art lately, that I'll shyly post below. Let me know if you like it. I have a contact form on my visit page, or this hyperlink. Oops, I made the whole sentence linkable.
It's more explorations pertaining to that story-in-progress, that graphic novel, comic book.
Good morning, I'm a person named Michaela Chan who paint-drew these. Wrote too.
I'm Mic(h)aela, I paint these in search of style for my graphic novel
I write about fall love and shred love
Crap, scratch that
Hello, thank you for looking, or finding, or whatever this sliver of be is
These are my art
I make art
Today I throw sense to the wind, capture the essence of a reason for artist statement. You see, I am making paintings for the corridors of this company. I hope the people who sojourn these halls find my stint as their rotating artist a refreshing experience. I hope you look long. That is all I want as an artist. Someone look long, slow, dont think about do or go.
Wait, that's illegible again.
So anyway, I am Michaela, who has taken these dice rolls to get here:
my book I work on most diligently
noticing distractions good
I think I believe
These may be pages out of the book
is comic book, graphic novel, thing
the ratio of book's existence
exclusively in my head vs tangible
shifts and shifts
thank you for watching